Concordat
by Laota II
Summary: Sam and Dean get sent to another dimension, where they died fighting Michael and Lucifer... Alright, you got me. I've been building to a team-up with Crowley and Balthazar (but B doesn't show his face 'til chapter 17). Anyway, enjoy!
1. TTFE

CUMBRIA - MIDNIGHT

It was a stormy January night when an eerie light glowed in the windows of the Hatfield Inn, a little pub and hotel at the foot of the fells, just an hour outside Buttermere Village. In the bar on the ground floor, a few corpses sat hunched at tables, their pints left unfinished. Two black-eyed patrons with bloody knuckles were drinking and playing Double Dragon on the old arcade cabinet near the restrooms, the dim light from the screen casting long shadows around the room. At the back of the bar was an almost medieval looking iron gate, bolted to the wall. A man, barely conscious, was chained to it like it was a torture rack.

He was a tall, middle-aged brunet, pale and thickset. Kind of stuffy - he had the look of a university professor. He also had the look of someone who'd spent the last few hours falling down an ascending escalator. His face was bruised and cut, his tweed suit was bloodied and filthy. His wrists, where they were shackled, were badly burned. He tried not to hang his weight on them.

The bell over the entrance rang, despite the fact that the door never opened. One of the two demons pulled the plug on the game, and so the room went black. Someone struck a couple of matches. It was Crowley. His expression was tired and surly. His eyes were bloodshot and his overcoat was soaked through, like he'd been standing in the rain all night. He looked - pardon the expression - like hell.

"Get the lights up, you little truncheons," he said.

One of the henchmen - the Johnny-on-the-spot one who unplugged the game - sped across the room and flipped on the antler chandelier that hung overhead. Crowley took his coat off and threw it to Johnny, then turned to the other demon.

"Two fingers of whisky," Crowley said to him. He turned to the man on the rack. "And for yourself?"

The man lifted his head, glowering. "Better not," he said. "I'm driving." He spoke with Yorkshire accent, choking a bit on his own blood.

"Not out in _that_," Crowley said. "Storm of the century's on the way, or so they tell me. No,... sit a spell." He went to the table nearest to the man, gently pushed one of the corpses off it's seat and took it's place. "I'm having a bastard of a night," he said. "And I hear you're the man who can make it better. That you're a fairy _and_ a vate-. Is that the word? And what's the difference between a seer and a vate? No one will tell me."

The man shook his head wearily. "It's the very same thing," he said. He had a soft, patronizing tone that made him sound like a kindergarten teacher. "It's just regional. And yes, it does get confusing. Will you _please_ kill me already? I can't listen to that midi music anymore." He threw a glance at the arcade cabinet.

Crowley looked back at it, saw the beer on the dashboard, then rolled his eyes and turned on his thugs. "You right skivers," he said, "no wonder our vate isn't in the mood to talk. Do I have to do everything myself?"

The dummies just looked at him.

**"That wasn't rhetorical**!" he roared.

"No sir," Johnny said.

The other idiot brought Crowley a drink - half a glass of whisky with ice in it.

"Did I say on the rocks?" Crowley asked. "It's January!" He gave the demon a dirty look and sent the drink back with a wave of his hand. The demon cringed like he thought he was going to get smacked. Crowley turned his attention back to the vate. "You see what I have to work with?" he said. "Cookie-headed cowards, the lot of them. Honestly, some days I don't know if I have henchmen or Frenchmen. Garron-. May I call you Garron?"

Garron the Vate sighed. "What do you want?" he asked.

"I need information," Crowley said. "See, I've recently discovered that - despite being a demon - I apparently have some sort of destiny,.. one that's about to go off in my face like a trick cigar. Half the oracles, seers and psychics I've been to have told me, in one style of rustic jabber or another, that I am fated to die at the hooves of one Sam Winchester, very soon, whilst throwing the planet into a tizzy."

"I'd avoid him," Garron said, smiling wryly.

"Not sure I can," Crowley said, "as I happen to have a fabulous tizzy in the works as we speak."

"Then you'll just have to sit back and accept your fate," Garron said.

"You'd think that," Crowley said. "If you were crap at fractions. The other half of your kind seem to think I'll live. They're all blaming me for the loused-up readings - something about my duplicitous nature. Whatever _that_ means. Now, I've heard all manner of pretty things about you and your visions. All the calamities you've predicted, I'll reckon you have some idea about this. Help me sort it all and avoid my moosey fate."

"I'm here to read you?" Garron asked skeptically. "Are you serious?"

Crowley put his palm out. "How do you want me?" he asked coyly. "Read the palms? Touch my skull a little?"

Garron grimaced. "You're fine over there," he said. "What is your true name?"

Crowley drew a breath to speak, but paused and squinted. "Why?" he asked. "Can't you just bliss out or whatever?"

"I need something to hold onto," Garron said. "So that when I look for your thread of fate in the ether, I'll find the right one."

Crowley thought about it for a second. He snapped his fingers and the two henchmen vanished. "The name's Crowley," he said. "I thought you knew that already."

"Just Crowley?" Garron asked.

Crowley shrugged.

"Have it your way, laddie," Garron said. He closed his eyes, took a breath and hung his head, quietly intoning something vowel-a-licious. This went on for about a minute while Crowley watched, his interest peaked. Garron threw his head back, banging it on the gate. His eyes, whites and all, had gone an odd, murky shade of green. He took a labored breath and spoke in a deep, rumbling voice:

_"The Moon and Sun would surely rule,_  
_But for the Hermit and his Fool."_

"Brilliant," Crowley muttered to himself. "He's singing 'American Pie.'"

Garron went on:

_"While Kings of Cup and Sword still rage, _  
_Quarreling in their silver cage,_  
_The cards are cut, the gates un-shut,_  
_And so shall fall the mage-._ Fudge!"

"What?" Crowley asked, slightly panicked.

"I just predicted my own death," he griped.

"Stay in the trance," Crowley said, "you've still got my thread."

"You're just gonna kill me anyway," Garron said glumly.

"I would **never**," Crowley said. "Go on. I mean, you're in there anyway. Might as well. 'And so shall fall the mage?'"

Begrudgingly, Garron stayed in his trance and continued:

"_The Hierophant's unheeded words-_. 'Unheeded words?' Wait, you're not even listening, are you?"

Crowley stopped checking messages on his phone. "Hm? Didn't catch that last bit."

"Splendid," Garron said. "I'll just go into me little trance again, shall I? Since we have all night. Do you have any idea how difficult this is?"

Crowley groaned. "Fine," he said. "I'm sorry I wasn't listening to your ridiculous little poem. Please, you'll have my undivided attention. And be a dove - skip the parts with _you_ in them?"

"With pleasure," Garron said, and began again:

_"The Sun must set,_  
_The Moon must rise,_  
_Eclipsed by Justice, fair and great._  
_But swinging by the Hanged Man's rope,_  
_A hope to change their fate."_

"Yes!" Crowley hissed, and subtly fist-pumped. "How do I do it? How do I change my fate?"

But Garron's head fell forward and his body had gone slack. The trance was over.

"Damn," Crowley said under his breath. He got up and snapped his fingers by Garrons ear. When that didn't work, he gave him a smack on the cheek and held his head up by his hair. "Fire it back up, Jambi," Crowley said. "You crapped out before the money-shot."

"That's all there is," Garron said, panting. His eyes were normal again. "There isn't any more."

"Well, thank you, Miss Clavel," Crowley said. "'The Moon must rise, eclipsed by Justice' - what in the name of Heidi Lynne Fleiss does any of that mean?"

"I don't know," Garron said. "But if you mean to change your fate, go to the Widow Volva."

"I'm not going to the Widow Volva!" Crowley shouted. "I came halfway around the globe to be read by you, and I'm getting refered? What kind of a business model-."

"She isn't far from here!" Garron snapped, cutting him off. "It isn't as if you've got to walk."

Crowley sneered and let out a little noise of petulant displeasure. "But she's so _bloody boring_," he whined. "She always has to start from the Beginning of Time, and if she thinks you've interrupted her, she starts all over."

"Well, maybe if you were a bit more patient?" Garron said. "But don't take _my_ advice, no. It's only your untimely demise, do whatever you want."

Crowley rolled his eyes. "**Fine**," he said. "I'll go to the Widow Volva, if you're gonna be Mr. Bossy Balls about it. You know, even for a prescient fairy, you're a tremendous pain in the ass?"

Garron glared down at him.

"This can't be the first time you've heard that," Crowley said. "So anyway, good talk." He picked up a brass-handled fire iron that was lying against the wall nearby. "Lovely meeting you. TTFE."

"You said you weren't gonna kill me," Garron said, shaking his head. His tone was more exasperated than anything else.

"I might've fibbed," Crowley said. "The guilt is just eating me up inside." He plunged the poker into Garron's gut with a quick, violent motion.

As Garron died his agonizing death, Crowley added brightly, "It _was_ good chatting with you, though. Hope you don't think I was lying about _that_."


	2. Five by Five

FIZZLE'S FOLLY - NOON

Kevin sat up in bed in his room. He was listening to the overture to Don Giovanni on his noise-canceling headphones and revising his notes on the demon tablet, removing useless material. For some reason, thrown in with God's dictation, there was a long passage in Metatron's personal brand of shorthand that looked like it was directions, maybe the location of something important. But on further inspection, all laid out, it was clearly just flowery imagery - comparing the gates of hell to a goat in the forest, and waxing poetic about a bloody mound of earth in Megiddo, calling it a garden of lost children. Kevin growled to himself as he read about friendship and isolation, and Metatron's prayers for all God's creations to come together. And "as I write this, I'm reminded of a story about three birds..."

"What the hell, man?" Kevin said to his notes. He tore an entire page out of his binder, crumpled it and tossed it at the wall. "Thanks for the eye-banshees,... jackass."

Every time Metatron tried to create atmosphere, Kevin had to throw out a day's work. He tried to scratch his ear under his headphone with the eraser end of his pencil. I wasn't working, so he took the headphones off and was startled by the booming of loud, muffled music.

Garth was back.

Kevin set his work aside and headed out of his room. When he opened the door, he got the full blast of New Edition's "Candy Girl" coming from the mini boombox in the galley. The desks were pushed against the walls. Garth had just set a chicken and rice casserole on the hot plate and was now tossing old take-out boxes in the trash, whilst doing the Ed Lover Dance in front of the sink.

"Garth?!" Kevin yelled, trying to get his voice to carry over Ralph Tresvant. No mean feat. "Garth!" he yelled again.

Garth turned around, lip-synching to the the music. He cupped a hand by his ear.

"Could you turn it down?!" Kevin shouted.

Garth shrugged and shook his head, started dusting off a few old Michael Jackson moves.

Kevin glared. He yelled, "I'm not doing it again!"

Garth smiled and kept on popping and locking.

"Okay, fine," Kevin said, inaudible over the music. With deep resignation, he went to the center of the room and count to three on his fingers. And then, something magical happened. Something majestically dorky. Kevin and Garth started doing the Kid 'n Play. They didn't have much room, but _damn_, they had to have practiced this. Garth grinned merrily as they danced, and Kevin frowned like he was having serious murder-thoughts.

As soon as Kevin had danced over to the boombox, he turned it off. "Can't you use your headset or something?" he asked, still yelling a little. "I can feel my heartbeat in my ears."

"Dang, pilgrim," Garth said. "Is that all you gotta say to your boy after a week? I brought Tex-Mex."

"Excuse me," Kevin said, "but I've had a crap-load on my plate lately, and I really don't need to get roped into a dance-break on the rare occasions when you decide to swing by."

"I beg to differ," Garth said, leaning against the counter. "Take it from somebody who knows, you get a calling this rough and don't balance it out with a little joy, you'll end up like Batman. If we're gonna come out the other side of this monkey storm, we gotta feed our souls. Unclench a little every now and then. Don't shut me out."

"It's not like I have a choice," Kevin said. "Do you get carrots?"

"Tomatoes," Garth said. "Hell, even _Batman_ had friends."

"Batman had _staff_," Kevin said, cracking a smile. "He was a rich, muscular white guy who liked to dress up in rubber pajamas and punch guys in bowler derbys, then drive his hotrod back to his mansion in total anonymity, with nobody chasing him. He was fine and I'm boned. Did you get oranges?"

"Apples," Garth said.

"I need vitamin C," Kevin said. "I think I have scurvy."

"No," Garth said, "you're just orange 'cause ya ate all the carrots. Besides, you can't make bunnies outta orange slices."

Kevin sighed heavily. "You already made them, didn't you?" he asked.

Garth picked up a green tupperware and gave it a gentle shake. "Face it, pilgram," he said, "dark needs light. Moon needs sun. Frowny Prophet needs little apple bunnies."

"**Stop** calling me Frowny Prophet," Kevin laughed. He took the tupperware. "Is there new peanut butter?"

Garth moved out of the way to reveal the JIF on the counter. Kevin took it, got a butter knife and went to a desk to start PBing the apple slices. One of Garth's phones rang, (with "This Is How We Do It" as the ringtone) and he turned away to answer it.

"Yo, Red. Hey,... take it easy, dawg. Oh, man, okay. Yeah. 'Buttermere,' where's that? ...Dude, it's a long ways off-. Granted... Where are you now? Good, I got some pals in the vicinity, they're old hands, you're gonna be five by five. Yeah, just sit tight. Hasta." He hung up and turned back the Kevin. "Hey, Tranman, Imma be back in a little while, alright?"

"Wha' happened?" he asked, through half a mouthful of apple.

"Usual stuff," Garth said, looking worried enough for it to not be the usual stuff. "I just gotta go sort my amigo out, reconcile some patterns of demonic activity."

Seeing as he wasn't headless, Kevin could tell something was up. Not much he could do about it, though. "Okay," he said. "Thanks for-." He held up a little apple slice that had bunny ears and a face carved into it. He smiled and laughed under his breath. "Whatever this crazy crap is."

Garth nodded, forced a smile. "Don't let the Tex-Mex burn," he said, before slinking out the door.


	3. Warsaw

BENTON COUNTY - NOON

Garth made his way out of the wharf where Fizzle's Folly was berthed, heading for the old Subaru he left in the parking lot of a crab shack, "Captain Prawnie's." He took out his phone and called his second contact, waited for the pick-up. "Moshi Moshi, Sami-kun," he said. "Right, sorry. I got a weird one for you fellas... No, it's local, you don't gotta-. It's in Detroit, turn around! I got a friend who-. Do **not** come to Warsaw, you hear me? I'm serious-." A car horn honked. Garth spun around and saw the Impala parked further down the wharf. He slammed a fist on the roof of his car. "You idjits tryin' to kill me?!" Garth hung up angrily, got a world map out of his backseat and unfolded it, spread it out on the hood of the car.

Sam and Dean got out of the Impala and made their way to Garth. They were carrying take out - Dean was eating a cup of popcorn shrimp and Sam was finishing an iced tea. He still had red in his sideburns from the "Battle of the Kingdoms". They both looked tired and amused. As they caught up to Garth, Sam squinted up at the sky - it was a little too clear and bright a day.

"Kinda hot out for winter," Sam said.

"Welcome to Missouri," Garth said. "The demon activity in this state's insane, makes the weather unpredictable. Last week, it was a winter wonderland, yesterday was a downpour." Garth looked at Dean and Sam's to-go cups. They had the blue and yellow Captain Prawnie's logo. "How long you guys been here and you can't drop me a line?" Garth asked, with a bitter edge to his voice. Dean and Sam exchanged guilty glances and Garth shook his head. "Forget it. I want you to have a look at somethin'."

He gestured to the map on the hood. There were about three dozen blue and red paper dots it. The red dots were mostly concentrated in and near Asia, with a few here and there in Europe and Hawaii. The blue dots were all over.

"Gonna assume that's not confetti," Dean said.

"The reds are slayings," Garth said. "Started in Gion. Vics were all stabbed to death in the last five weeks, their eyes popped out like they was advent calendars."

Sam and Dean both grimaced at that.

"You need work on the imagery, dude," Dean said. "I just went to a chocolatey bad place."

"Any idea why your guy goes for the eyes?" Sam asked.

"They were all seers," Garth said. "Their eyes are worth a bundle on the black market. Besides, maybe they knew somethin' the guy didn't want spread around."

"These guys could see the future?" Dean scoffed. "Isn't that something that would've come in handy for - oh, I don't know - saving their own bacon?"

"Most of them did predict their own deaths," Garth said. "Sent a warnin' out on the vine. That's the only reason I got as much info as I do about it."

"So they knew what killed them?" Dean asked. "_Ahead of time_, and they didn't get outta dodge?"

"That's prophecies, man," Garth said. "They can get kinda transcendental. Some of 'em saw a shadow at the door, some a black dog in tall grass. That kinda crap. Nobody knew where or when for certain. But I talked it out with my buddy Red - he's a psychic up in Detroit - and he's piss-scared this thing's comin' after him soon. So you two gotta book it in reverse, 'cause he's the closest thing to lead we got. See, the blue dots are all seers who think they're on the boogie man's list, and they're everywhere. Plus, this guy's bouncin' around, goin' the long way. We can only guess where he'll hit next.

"Arizona," Sam said.

"The guy's random," Garth said. "There's no pattern to it."

"Yeah," Sam said. "Except the nautilus."

Dean and Garth stared at Sam. Sam edged Garth out of the way and used his pinky to trace a logarithmic spiral on the map - starting at Japan - that got wider until Sam was tracing on the car. It hit all the red dots on the way, except the ones on the other side of the map.

"Okay," Dean said, "but wouldn't that take him off the edge?"

Garth and Sam both looked at Dean like he was an idiot. It actually took Dean a little while to get it.

"Look," Garth said, "maybe it's his pattern, I don't know. I'll see if I can send some hunters down that way, but I want you guys lookin' after Red. He's my friend, it'd be a favor."

"Why don't _you_ go to Detroit," Sam said, "take care of you buddy. We can go to Arizona."

"I'm needed here," Garth said, looking around himself, as if to make sure he wasn't being watched. "If this thing's on it's way to The States, that is."

"You think Kevin's next," Dean said.

By the look on Garth's face, it was obvious Dean hit the nail on the head. "I dunno," Garth said. "I mean, he's a different kinda prophet, right? But all the same, I ain't leavin', not until we get this squared away. You on board?"

"Sure," Sam said. "This guy got an address?"


	4. Fire and Ice

FLAGSTAFF - AFTERNOON

In the Pine Park RV Resort in Flagstaff, Arizona, two demons stood guard outside an airstream trailer, kicking away some loud, orange cats that wouldn't leave them alone.

Inside the trailer it was all yellow and white, furnished art deco style, with cherry red accents and cheesy little tchotchkes all around. At the nose of the trailer was the dinette - a circular booth with a little round table that was set for low tea. The spread was American and granny-style, from the alfalfa sprout sandwiches to the honey taffy and peanut butter fudge squares. There were two red crystal glasses, yet to be filled.

At the icebox, an old woman fetched out a red crystal carafe and brought it to the dinette. She was a sunny, goofy little blonde, dressed in khaki polyester. She was frail-looking, but had a sort of vigor about her, like Teddy Roosevelt.

Crowley sat in the booth, awkward and annoyed, and trying his damnedest not to show it. "I suppose you already know why I'm here," he said.

"Do I look like the president of your fanclub?" the old woman asked, giggling. She filled her glass. "Honestly, I miss the hell out of being obscure. Back in the day, nobody expected jack squat from me, and now I'm supposed to be everyone's biographer." She held up the carafe to Crowley. "Hemo?"

"Not really," Crowley said, "but I'm very European. Gives the same impression."

"It's a drink, chuckles," she said, and filled his glass. "It's got vitamins, I'm sure you've heard about those on TV." She smiled and sat down across from him. "Why don't you take your coat off, honey, you look like an ass."

Crowley took a deep breath through his nose. "Mistress Volva," he said, "I've been refered to you. Half my sources say I'll live, half say I won't. But as a demon, I shouldn't have a destiny of my own at all. You can see how the matter has me at loose ends. It's one thing to hear you're destined to die, you can get your affairs in order. But this... How does one make plans? You see my dilemma."

"I see a crock of bull," Volva said, and took a big sip from her glass. It made her so happy. "But if I had to venture a guess-."

"_Guess_?" Crowley asked. "You're _guessing_ about my fate?"

"Shut up and drink your drink," Volva said. "It's not there to wash your beard in. _Anywho_, as I was saying. If I had guess, I'd say your fate was tangled up with a human's. That can happen when you cross a hero-type."

Crowley took a sip of his drink and choked a little. "You didn't happen to put an entire bottle of rum in this?" he asked.

Volva nodded. "That's how I take it," she said.

"Now, what did you mean, 'hero-type?'" Crowley asked.

"Well," Volva said, "there are certain individuals out there whose actions are destined to count from more than your average jerk-off. And when they have a choice set in front of them - like whether or not to leave the house - the two possible outcomes can change the world in very different ways. The whole of creation is a series of binary choices, linear and logical in progression, but with unpredictable repercussions. Like Plinko! When there's a place of both great heat and terrible cold-."

"Missouri," Crowley said. "You're thinking of Missouri. This is all very illuminating, madam, but I was wondering if you couldn't give me a reading? I need to change my fate."

"Well, like I said, a place of heat and cold. But I should probably back up a ways, so it all makes sense."

"You don't have to back up," Crowley said quickly. "Just go straight to the part about my fate and how to change it."

Volva scrunched her nose thoughtfully. She shook her head. "Hmm, I really should back up, though," she said. "See, in the Beginning of Time, there was an insurmountable gap, and to one side of it was a place of fire. To the other side, a place of ice..."

As she told her story, Crowley's face fell with sour resignation. He started drinking his Hemo.


	5. Flashpoint

THE IMPALA - INDIANA HIGHWAY

Six hours on the road and the Winchesters were heading east through moonlit Terre Haute. The view from the car was unreal, like the backdrop in a carnival dark ride - blue fluorescent mountains and pine trees on all sides. As "Bargain" by The Who faded out on the radio, Dean looked contented, lulled by the pleasant rattle of the heater on full blast. He glanced to the passenger side. Sam was frowning at nothing, totally spaced-out. Nothing new, but it was too good of a night for Dean to look over and see that.

"You okay?" Dean asked.

"Yeah?" Sam said, as though it was a random question. Maybe it was. "Why?"

"I dunno," Dean said. "You looked like you were halfway between Ferrari and Le Tigre, thought I'd ask."

"Sorry," Sam said. "Just because I'm not grinning like an idiot and drumming on the dash, doesn't mean I'm-."

But he was cut off as "Jumpin' Jack Flash" came over the radio. But it wasn't just any Jumpin' Jack Flash. It was the one the Stones recorded live in Tokyo, in 1989.

"No way!" Sam yelled happily. "Flashpoint! ...God, I miss that CD. I remember, I heard that version of 'Ruby Tuesday' in that... that Denny's? Couldn't get it outta my head."

"Dad hated that album," Dean said, smiling and shaking his head. "He'd groan like a tween whenever he heard it through your headphones. 'Come on with that thing, Sam, I can hear Jagger going bald!'"

They both laughed. It was fun tormenting Dad.

"Where'd you get the money for that discman, anyway?" Dean asked. "I know Dad didn't give it to you."

"You know that frozen frog bet in Oceanside?" Sam said with a smirk.

"Those kids never saw a frozen anything in their lives," Dean snickered. "How much you collect on that one?"

"Just fifty," Sam said. "But it put me over the top. I'd saved most of that cash from back in Bountiful.

"Bountiful?" Dean asked. "_Utah_? You were eight, Sam, when did you make money?"

"You don't remember?" Sam asked. "We were extras.'"

Dean kept his eyes on the road, looking a bit embarrassed. "I, uh,... I don't think you remember Bountiful," he said.

"We were in the 'Sandlot,'" Sam said. "Remember? They were shooting the pickle scene. And..." Sam chuckled, remembering. "You were in love with Mike Vitar."

"I don't even know who you're talkin' about," Dean said. "But if I _did_ know him, he was my friend and that was it."

"You carried his soda around," Sam said. "He called you Tom."

"Tim," Dean said, getting a little upset. "And I don't remember, so can we just drop it, Captain Buzzkill? Besides, how would you know? You got food poisoning and tossed your cookies on James Earl Jones."

"I _wish_," Sam said, sounding oddly sincere. "I never even saw the guy."

Dean gave Sam a WTF look, but was distracted as a highway patrol car passed them in the left lane.

"Dude, Baby Cop!" Dean said, and stepped on the gas. He pushed the car to sixty, ten over the speed limit.

"No," Sam said anxiously. "We're only halfway to Motown, you heard what Garth said."

The patrol car turned around, siren on and lights flashing. It started chasing them.

"Come on, Sammy," Dean said, grinning evilly at the road. "We gotta test out the new badges. Five minutes, tops."

Sam sighed, giving up way too easy. "Alright," he said. "I'll get the sandwiches."

Dean pulled over and got out. Sam got two sandwiches out of the backseat and scooted out of the driver's side of the car. As the patrol car pulled up behind them, they opened their sandwiches and started gnawing on them with hostile expressions. Dean glowered, kept his shoulders back and rubbed his chest with his free hand. Sam was hunched and snarling, and held his sandwich with both hands, like a harmonica. The cop got out of his car and walked up to them cautiously. He was young, about twenty-two, and not all that big. They glared at him, but kept chewing. They looked like honest-to-god, backwoods freaks.

"I'm gonna hafta ask you two gentlemen to get back inside your vehicle," the cop said, trying not to sound scared.

The boys kept on eating their sandwiches. But then Sam breathed through his nose so heavily, it blew lettuce out of his BLT. That was enough to crack them both up and they finally broke character.

"Sorry!" Dean said. "We had to, man. We're just messin' with you." He and Sam flashed their FBI badges to the officer.

"Agents Perry and Schon," Sam said, smiling with a sort of apologetic wince. "We're on our way to the DA's conference in Detroit."

The cop looked pissed for a moment. Sam and Dean traded worried looks.

The cop pointed at them. "You guys had me going," he said, then cracked a smile and shook his head. "What the hell was with the sandwiches?" The boys shrugged. "You guys are trouble - I just called this in!" They all laughed together for a minute. "Wouldn't try that again, though," the cop said, heading for his car. "You were too good, the next guy might draw on ya!"

"Last time," Dean said, "we swear!"

The cop got in his car and drove off, leaving Sam and Dean waving. Sam was giving Dean a disapproving look.

"That was actually pretty close," Dean said, still laughing.

"I wonder if he remembers you," Sam said, getting into the driver's side.

"What?" Dean asked, looking worried.

"Mike Vitar," Sam said, as innocently as he could, before shutting and locking the door. He scrambled to get all the doors in the Impala locked while Dean hightailed it to the other side of the car, hoping to beat Sam to the passenger side lock.


	6. Cutting Cards

FLAGSTAFF - NIGHT

Back at the majestic airstream trailer of the Widow Volva, Crowley was white-knuckling it through hour five of his reading. He and Volva had gone through two pitchers of Hemo and rum, and the whole thing was starting to get weird.

"Where were we?" Volva asked, trying not to laugh.

"My fate and how to change it," Crowley said.

"Really?" she asked. "I could've sworn we were just out of the War of the Sixth Coalition."

"Nope," Crowley said, "you just keep confusing me with Napoleon. I'm trying to be flattered."

"Oh, take the compliment," Volva said. "All the seers liked him best! It was so refreshing, not knowing which way the wind blew with that one. Cute, too. But he had these creepy, little doll-hands."

Volva giggled to herself, not yet noticing the way Crowley glared at her, drumming his fingers on the table. Once she had, she cleared her throat and rubbed her hands together.

"Okay, let's get going with that fate of yours," Volva said. "Sam Winchester kills you."

Volva and Crowley sat staring at each other for a moment.

"That's it?" Crowley said. "Just like that?"

"Exactly like that," Volva said. "Should I back up a little?"

"No!" Crowley said, unable to keep his voice down. "I mean, let's concentrate on the part where I can change it."

"You can't," Volva said. "But thanks for playing."

"What about the Hanged Man's rope?" Crowley asked. "Are you saying the Vate was just shining me?"

"Oh, that," Volva said. "No, he was right. There is a way to change it. But not for you."

Crowley took a breath through his nose and let it out through his mouth, trying to hold his rum. "Why not?" he asked.

"Well," Volva said, "the fact that you even have a destiny is because you've tangled your thread up with a couple of heroes. One of them has the power to take your life, and the other - the one with the tiny head - has the power to spare it."

"You're talking about Dean, aren't you?" Crowley sighed. "He's the Hanged Man, or whatever? That's just... perfect."

"Or the Pope," Volva said, and held her head. Too much Hemo. "You ever make a pact with the Pope?"

"That would be Napoleon," Crowley said.

"Are you sure?" Volva asked. "The Pope, or... an angel. You both wanted the world, wanted the souls-. Want. Past or present tense? ...It's so damn confusing. But the Hanged Man _is_ Dean Winchester. Years ago, he made a choice - a little, insignificant one. And it snowballed, like a hero's choice is wont to do. He and that big, Patrick Swayze-looking bastard were meant to die, and you were meant to live. But you just had to throw your wash in with theirs, and now, they're the only ones who can put it right. Nice knowin' ya."

"Wait a minute," Crowley said. "Are you saying the Winchesters could change it back?"

"If that's what you're hoping for," Volva said, "then I can guess how you got in this mess in the first place. It's a pipe-dream, honey. No villain with half a brain makes deals with angels and heroes."

"You're right," Crowley said bitterly. "It's a good thing I'm not a villain, then."

"I'm serious," Volva said. "There are two roads to nowhere in front of you, kid. If you don't wanna end up back here again, begging like a chump for some lead to pull your ass out of the fire, then-."

"Screw it," Crowley said. "I know I can't kill you. You wouldn't have let me in here if I could. But I _do_ have something you want." He took a took a folded-up paper out of his pocket and opened it. It had a rubbing of some runic engraving in the middle. "This look familiar to you? It should, it's from the marker of your life-debt."

The color drained from Volva's face. "Where did you get that?" she asked, her voice gone hoarse.

Crowley clucked his tongue at her. "Tragic," he said. "The way Odin screwed you out of your life to save a man who, it just so happens, can't be killed. A man who wouldn't touch you with a Bat'leth, from what I hear. Sad. Of course, you have no one but yourself to blame. I mean, no seer with half a brain makes deals with gods."

"That little turd," Volva muttered to herself.

"All-Daddy Odin," Crowley said. "What a mensch, practically a crossroads demon himself. You know, he and I had something special back in the day? He even gave me your life-debt. _For nothing_."

Volva's breath started to quicken. "He just gave it to you?" she snapped. "My life? Just like that?"

"Exactly like that," Crowley said, getting his happy back. "Now you know how it feels to have your fate in the hands of someone who can't wait to crush you. And when I say 'can't wait,' I'm underplaying it. I would've been here sooner to collect on your debt, but that would mean having to listen to your asinine monkey-chatter all day, so you can see why I took my time. Now. You and I are going to talk creative solutions..."


	7. Welcome Back To Detroit

THE IMPALA - DETROIT, MICHIGAN

Midnight in Palmer Woods. No wind, no moon. Only street lamps lit the roads, but they were damn near impossible to see through the heavy snowfall. The boy's had been on the road for nearly twelve hours. "Burnin' For You" by Blue Oyster Cult was playing quietly on the radio. Dean was over-caffeinated and anxious, and Sam had fallen asleep with a sad, slightly aggravated expression fixed on his face - the expression he wore so frequently lately, Dean could just call it "Sam Face" and strangers would know what he meant. Dean looked at the crumpled paper Garth wrote the address on:

"Atlas House Inn,  
330 Benedict Drive.  
Ask for Red."

They were on the right street, at the right number, but Dean was a little wigged. The Atlas House was a giant Tudor revival mansion with sprawling grounds. The architecture was dimly lit by hidden light fixtures. It was one of those houses they scout for the kind of movies where everyone dies screaming in vintage clothes. Dean drove up the mossy circular driveway, parked the Impala at the front entrance and gave Sam's shoulder a shake.

Sam took a deep, quick breath through his nose and squinted out the window at the house. "Where are we?" he asked groggily.

"Car stopped," Dean said.

"What happened?" Sam asked, sitting up straight.

"She's scared," Dean said in a facetiously grave tone. He couldn't help grinning at his own joke.

Sam laughed under his breath and wiped the sleep out of his eyes. "How far do we got?" he said.

"We're there," Dean said.

"This is the place?" he asked. He smiled like he didn't believe Dean, and then like he didn't want to believe him. "Seriously?"

"Same address," he said.

"So there's just a creepy-ass, isolated mansion in the woods?" Sam asked. "In... Motown?"

"I spotted nine on the way over," Dean said in a somewhat annoyed tone. "Palmer Woods, man. Nice gated community. Sulfur in the crossroads, historic family cemeteries and, oh yeah, we're parked on willow moss."

Sam frowned. "Guess the rich really are different," he said.

Both looking a little worried, they zipped up their jackets, got out of the car and headed for the huge front door. There were stone engravings of saints praying on the facade of the house and a stone balcony above the entryway. Looming over them from the ledge of the balcony was an old, patinated copper statue. It was Michael battling Lucifer.

"What are the odds this guy is fine and we don't have to go in?" Dean asked.

"You wanna tell Garth we bailed on his friend?" Sam asked.

"Fine," Dean said. "But if Mr. Boddy caps us in the hallway with the revolver, you owe me a Coke."

No doorbell. Dean used the iron knocker, but the door creaked opened as he did. Inside the house, there was a line of salt and a line of goofer dust at the threshold. A pale blue light cast strange shadows and hot, stale air carried a sickeningly sweet perfume. A sinister melody played faintly. The boys rolled their eyes. So that's how it gots to be, eh?


	8. The Winchesters

ATLAS HOUSE - NIGHT

Sam and Dean took out a couple of flashlights, kept their hands on their pistols and wearily entered what had to be the most tiresomely spooky mansion in Detroit. Heading from the lobby into the pitch-dark sitting room, it wasn't long before they found the source of both the light and the music: a smartphone sitting on an endtable, alerting it's owner about a new text message by quietly playing a sad instrumental of "Ghostriders In The Sky." Dean ran a hand along the wall until he found a dimmer switch and turned the lights up.

The sitting room was decorated in Herter Brothers style and was lavish, almost to the point of tastelessness. There was a giant, tiled hearth at the back of the room with an armchair on either side of it. A man slept quietly in one of the chairs - tall guy, roughly Sam's height, in a three-piece gray suit, wearing an anti-possession charm. He was about fifty, athletic, very dark and his head was shaved bald as an egg. There was a rocks glass and a half empty bottle of Pimm's No. 1 Cup on the end table beside him, right next to his smartphone.

"Excuse me?" Sam asked. "**Sir**?" He knocked on the wall.

It took a moment for the man to wake up, and when he did, he bolted to his feet in a panic, drawing a .38 Special on Sam.

Sam and Dean raised their guns. Dean gave Sam a look.

"Fine," Sam said, in a huff. "I owe you a Coke."

Still half asleep, the man seemed to be coming to his senses. "The Winchesters?" he asked, speaking in a South London accent. He lowered his weapon; Sam and Dean lowered theirs.

"That depends," Dean said, giving the man's gun the hairy eyeball. "You know where we can find a guy called Red?"

"I am Red Braden," he said. He had an oddly measured, elegant way of speaking. Maybe it was the booze.

"Really?" Dean asked with a bit of a laugh. "You're Red? Okay. Name like that, I was... kinda expectin' an Irish dude."

"And how am I not what you were expecting?" Red asked, giving him a sarcastically confused frown. He knew exactly what Dean meant.

Dean looked a little nervous. He turned to Sam, who was giving him the exact same frown as Red, as if to say,_ Don't look at me, dumbass, I ain't jumpin' in this hole with you._ When Dean finally thought of something he turned back to Red.

"British," Dean said hopefully. Nice save.

"English," Red said. "And Red is my first name, not my nickname." He gestured to a nearby sofa. "Thank you for driving out, I hope you weren't too inconvenienced."

"Glad to help," Dean said, with equal parts relief and trepidation. He and Sam took a seat on the sofa and Red pulled up an ottoman.

"Garth didn't fill us in on much," Sam said. "You wanna tell us why you think you're in trouble?"

Red set his pistol down on the coffee table and put his hands together, fingers intertwined. He was having a hard time making eye-contact.

"I have visions," Red said.

"We know," Sam said gently. "The other seers had them, too. But _everybody_ thinks their next. So I guess what I'm tryin' to say is,... what makes Garth so sure it's gonna be you? I don't think he would've made us haul ass from Missouri just 'cause you're solid buds."

"My visions aren't like the others," Red said. "They're not open to interpretation."

"They're vivid?" Sam asked. There seemed like there was an extra bit of sympathy in his voice.

"Like a silent film," Red said. "I saw him come for me."

"It's a man?" Dean asked. "What's he look like?"

Red wrung his hands, bit his lip. Like he didn't want to say. "Have you ever seen 'The Man Who Knew Too Much?'" he asked.

"The... Jimmy Stewart movie," Sam said.

"No," Red said quietly. "Not that one. The one with Leslie Banks." He finally looked up at Sam and Dean, who both seemed profoundly confused. "Never mind," Red said. He was breaking a sweat. "He's my age. Not... British."

Sam and Dean glanced at each other: got it.

Red was having a hard time going on. "He wore a tailored suit," he said. "Black on black. He wasn't as tall as we are, and he was..."

"Chubby?" Dean asked.

"I wouldn't say that," Red said, looking slightly alarmed.

Dean smirked. "Neckbeard?" he asked.

"He had **a** beard," Red said.

Dean narrowed his eyes at Red.

Sam looked back and forth between them, not really getting the vibe. "What happens in your visions?" he asked.

"He talks to me," Red said. "Has coffee with me. He takes his time, and then... he takes my eyes. He attacks me in broad daylight, I don't know why or how."

"Can you make out what he's saying to you?" Sam asked.

"There isn't sound," Red said. "There never is in my visions."

"Then what makes you think you're next?" Dean asked.

"I'm walking across the lawn of my church," Red said. "We're planning for a charity lunch. I sponsor one every year on National Pie Day. That happens tomorrow."

"Nice try, Kreskin," Dean said. "But National Pie Day was last week."

Sam looked sideways at Dean, then rolled his eyes. _Of course_.

"Forgive me," Red said. "I misspoke. I meant, National Corn Chip Day."

Dean's face fell. He muttered to himself, "Damn, he's right."

Sam took a beat to be mildly horrified of his brother, then started with Red again.

"And where's your church?" Sam asked.

"Russell Street," Red said. "'Sweetest Heart of Mary.' It's a beautiful church, but you'll forgive me if I have no desire to die there."

"Yeah, don't worry," Sam said. "We can make you safe right here. I'm pretty sure this is a guy we've seen before, we know how to handle him. You're gonna be okay."

"What does he want with me?" Red asked.

"You're eyes," Dean said. "Information. A date for the prom-. What he's after? Not really the top of our list right now. **You **are. But if he's the ugly sumbitch we think he is, we've got it covered. Time to hunker down."

Red winced at Dean's words. "But it can't be _here_," he said. "The inn is full of guests at the moment. It won't be safe for them."

"Motel sound good to you?" Sam asked.

Red nodded gratefully. He grabbed his pistol and the three of them headed for the door.

Dean cleared his throat. "Crowley?" he said to Sam pointedly. "You'd think Garth would've said something."

"I didn't describe him," Red said. "Garth never asked."

Red opened the front door. Dean caught up and calmly pushed the door shut before anyone could leave. He got between Red and the doorknob.

"What is it you said you did for a living?" Dean asked Red.

"I didn't mention it," Red said. "But I'm the innkeeper here. Are you wondering how someone so 'British' came at the position?"

"And how come there's Goofer dust at the door?" Dean asked.

"It's an old superstition-." Red began to say.

"How did you know what Crowley was?" Sam asked. He was behind Red now, arms folded. There was something like disappointment in his eyes.

"I saw him in my vision," Red said, turning to Sam.

"Yeah," Sam sighed. "You said there's never sound in your visions - it's not like the guy at the church could tell you his name. And just now you said that you never described the thing in your vision to Garth, which means he never told you the guy's name, either. So how did you know what Dean meant when he said Crowley?"

Red looked back to the door. Dean grinned at him.

"_Hi_," he said in a wryly sweet tone. "We're the Winchesters?"


	9. Shadow and Substance

ATLAS HOUSE - NIGHT

"Hello, boys," Crowley said. He was sitting in the chair Red had vacated, pouring himself a glass of Pimms. With a small, careless hand gesture, he slammed Sam and Dean back against the front door and pinned them there. "I think I needed that. Plans are well and good, but I was getting restless leg syndrome waiting for you chuckleheads to catch on."

"Crowley," Red said, "I did my best-."

"Stop talking," Crowley said. "Everyone, just..." He let out a haggard breath, tried to wave off his exhaustion. "Shut up. I've been listening to hippy seers and nut-job oracles, drunken Norns and giant, bossy fairies for five bloody weeks, and I've had it. It's my turn to talk." He took a sip of his Pimms. "Let's see, what's first on the agenda? Right. Red: set up their little porthole? Get it right, those extra thirty years are as good as yours."

Red looked back and Sam and Dean with sincere compassion, but not regret. "This wasn't what I wanted," he said matter-of-factly.

Sam smiled a pained, sarcastic smile at Red. "Blow it out your ass, Cueball," he said.

"Me-ow," Crowley snickered at Sam. "I thought the 'vivid visions' detail would smash your buttons." He pointed at Red merrily, "You're just gonna be Cueball from now on. I'm telling everyone."

Red took the top off the ottoman he'd sat on earlier. There was a nifty little ritual kit inside - matches, a dagger, a bundle of white sage, small blue candles and a large obsidian plaque. The plaque was etched with strange words around its edges: chove xani ~ ch'orav ~ beng baxt. He removed the items and put the top back on, then placed the plaque on the ottoman and arranged the candles on its frame. He lit them and their wax began to drip toward the center of the plaque and pool up. Red lit and then put out the sage, then began to pace the room, spreading heavy curls of smoke.

Dean shifted uncomfortably against the wall. ""There's gotta be a way to neutralize this crap where he flings us around," he said to Sam.

"Psychokinesis," Sam said bitterly. "The least he could do is get a friggin' nosebleed."

Dean winced. "Dammit, I think I'm on a nail," he said.

"The Lords of the Quarters are in agreement," Red said to Crowley.

"Good," Crowley said. "It's nice to hear those crazy kids have patched things up. Short hand?"

"The errant thread of fate must be burned," Red said, sounding slightly annoyed. "Which is the errant one, I cannot say."

"But you can open a gateway to the other one?" Crowley asked. He put his drink down and got to his feet. "Make sure it's got the ground clearance to squeeze Jay and Mouthy Bob through."

"I'll need your blood on the plaque," Red said, and held his dagger out by the blade.

"Why mine?" Crowley asked, crossing the room to them. "Just stick a tap in the big one, he'll bleed all week."

Sam made a pissy face that.

"You are the joint," Red said. "The only constant between the threads that we know of."

Crowley shook his head. "I hate doing this," he said. He looked sullenly at his left palm. "No Purell for a week."

He took the dagger and cut his palm over the plaque, letting his blood drip into the middle. When the blood touched the pooling wax, it all began to burn in blue flame.

"Mm-mm!" Crowley grunted. "Something smells yummy. Must be that secret ingredient." He took a silk handkerchief from his pocket and wrapped it around his hand. He stepped up to Sam and Dean, looking them over appraisingly. "The old gang, back together again. I think I'm getting the vapors."

"What's with all strange brew?" Dean asked, sneering. "You get tired of shavin' your back, maybe wanna go halves on some Bommaritos?"

"I think I've missed your class the most," Crowley said. "But enough with old business. I'm in the position to offer you boys a rare opportunity to change the world. See, at some point in the past, a thread of fate split in two-."

"The chase?" Sam snapped.

"I'm throwing you into another world," Crowley said.

Sam and Dean glanced at each other, baffled.

Crowley arched a brow. "Exposition's not so boring _now_, is it?" he said. "At some point in the past, Sweet Dee ripped fate a new one." He flicked Dean's earlobe, just so we'd all know who he was talking about. "Something he did before the Apocalypse changed the planet ever so slightly, and here we stand. But had he not done this tiny, insignificant thing, the both of you would've died at Stull. Both fates are equally possible, but different in the extreme, and have global significance. This has apparently dichotomized time. I'm not a hundred percent on what that means, big picture-wise, but one of these threads has to be jettisoned. I want you two to decide which one."

"The other one," Dean answered.

"Not that easy," Crowley said. "I want you to see the other branch first, kick the tires. Get the feel. It's all up to you, whichever branch you think is better. The catch is, you don't exist in the other one. So if you end up deciding door number two is the best of all possible worlds and want it to come true, you have to kill yourselves."

Dean and Sam gave Crowley the "what are you smoking" frown.

"Don't ask me," Crowley said, "them's the rules. And if you decide that _this_ is the better world, find the other me and kill him, you'll come straight back."

"How 'bout I just kill you now?" Dean asked. "Save us the cab fare?"

"Not you, Jughead," Crowley said. "It's Sammy's destiny. The only way back here, is if Moose kills me. And anyway, neither of you gets a crack at me until you're in the other branch. All clear on the rules? Are we ready to play?"

"What's in it for you?" Sam asked.

"Worlds are in the balance," Crowley said, trying (not very hard) to sound scandalized. "Besides... I feel we've grown apart these last few years. This is something we can all do as a family."

"Let's just get this over with," Dean said.

"_So keen_," Crowley said. "That's why you've always been my favorite henchmen. Don't worry, we're just about ready to start. But first, tell me one thing." He looked Sam and Dean over again and gestured between them. "Just between us, which one of you is the Little Spoon?"

Sam and Dean could barely move, but after that last dig, they did their damnedest. If it had been at all possible to strangle him, one of them would've done it.

Crowley seemed very pleased with himself. "Why don't I just liquify them on the spot?" he asked Red. "Really show fate who wears the y-fronts?"

"You're welcome to try," Red said, unable to suppress a small smirk.

A delighted grin spread across Crowley's face. He pointed his dagger at Sam, then Dean, back and forth, on and on, whispering a lot to himself, the words "if he hollers, let him go" clearly audible in there. At last, he settled on Sam.

Red dropped a large silver coin in the middle of the plaque, eyes shifting to Crowley as he did. Atlas House rumbled around them, like they were experiencing a mini-earthquake. Paintings swayed and knick-knacks fell from the walls.

Crowley stumbled back, incredulous at the commotion around him. Wary now, he raised his dagger toward Sam's throat. The quake began again and the coin on the plaque began to vibrate. He moved the dagger away and it stopped. Moved it back, the quake. Away, stillness. Crowley looked at Sam and Dean, who were looking back at him, and at each other, all three of them clueless.

"What's doing that?" Crowley thought aloud.

"Rube Goldberg?" Red said smugly.

Crowley turned a wrathful scowl on Red. "If you're behind this-." he began.

"I'd only be hurting myself," Red said. "I know. Excuse my bit of schadenfreude at the devil's expense. We might as well get back opening the gateway. You can always try to kill him again afterward."

Crowley turned back to Sam, but glared at Red out of the corner of his eye: he seemed to have changed his mind about who he wanted to kill.

"Cackle while you can, Witchy Poo," Crowley said. "We'll see how funny you think this tomorrow night, when you're kibbles and bits."

"I have one day left," Red said firmly. "And if they break the thread, I earn my thirty years. That was our agreement."

"Then fire up the grill," Crowley said. He backed a safe distance from the Winchesters.

And Red knelt by the plaque and recited:

_**"Munu osanirakrar vaxa..."**_

As he spoke, the silver coin began to spin on its edge.

_**"...Bolsmun alls batna..."**_

"You're about to enter another dimension," Crowley said. "A dimension not only of sight and sound, but of mind..."


	10. The Twilight Zone

STULL, KANSAS - NIGHT

Icy rain. High winds. No moon. It had been a bleak night in Kansas if there ever was one, and it was far from over. Despite the downpour, the ground in a certain field was hard and barren. There wasn't even dead grass, just earth and rocks - with all the large, broken stones, it might as well have been a quarry. Dean woke in a coughing fit, laying on his side in the mud, choking on rain water. His skin had gone purple from the cold, but he wasn't soaked. Couldn't have been out in that weather for very long. It took him a minute or two to get his head right, and once he had, he got to his feet and tried to get his bearings. He turned his maglite on the field.

"_Sam_?" Dean said.

He was going for volume, but his voice hoarse and broken. He dug his phone out of his pocket, said a quick "thank you" to the universe in general when he saw it still worked, and called Sam's cell. It took a few seconds, but it wasn't too long before Dean could hear something coming from a few yards away in the dark: the bridge from "The Way Life's Meant to Be." (In any other circumstances, that would've made Dean smile.) Limping on a numb leg, he followed the sound of ELO up a small incline until he found Sam on the ground, still out cold. Dean knelt down next to him and started shaking him awake.

"Hey," Dean said. He pulled Sam by the front of his jacket and sat him up out of the mud. "Come on, up and at 'em. We gotta go."

Sam was awake now, and shocked by the cold. "What happened?" he asked. "Where are we?"

"No idea," Dean said. "You okay?"

"Feelin' really creeped out right now," Sam said.

"Good that you're on topic," Dean said curtly. "But we need to get outta the rain, **now**, or we're both gonna freeze."

"Right."

Dean helped Sam up, but as he did, he saw something on the ground where Sam had been laying. He shined his flashlight on it.

"_Son of a bitch_," he said under his breath. "Don't turn around, Sammy."

Saying that never works. Sam turned around and freaked right out when he saw it: scorched into the rocky ground was the blackened silhouette of a man... with a pair of giant wings. The ash was so thick, it might as well have been asphalt.

"Jesus, what the hell?!" Sam shouted.

"I don't know," Dean said.

"Was that... _mine_?" Sam asked. "Did I do that somehow?"

"Come on," Dean said. He gave Sam's shoulder a squeeze. "We gotta move."

Just then, they heard gunfire. "You git on out from there!" a man shouted in a very distinct Texas drawl. "This here's a sacred place! Yes sir."

"Smitty," they said in unison.

Dean walked ahead and waved his arms. "Hey, Smitty!" he yelled, choking. They could hear the man pump the action on his gun. "It's the Winchesters!"

Another shot sounded.

Dean flinched and put his hands up, looking a bit sheepish. "We're not that bad," he said to himself. "Dallas Smith!" he hollered. "We need help!"

Up ahead, a flashlight came on and found Dean. He turned his flashlight back on the guy. He was an old man, about seventy, short and hunched at the shoulders, but with a hearty energy about him. And unlike _some_ idjits, he was dressed for the rain and cold - he wore a long, red plaid wool coat and hat, and tall rubber chore boots. The man approached them, lowering his shotgun.

"You're Mary's boy," Smitty said. "Dean Winchester?"

"Yeah, it's me," Dean said.

"I heard tell you were dead."

"Well, you heard tell wrong," Dean said, smiling as friendly as he could manage. "Can you give us a ride?"

"What in God's name are you doin' out in the cemetery?" Smitty asked.

Sam blanched at that. That's why he was so creeped out - they'd woken up in Stull Cemetery...

_Great_.

"We, uh,... came to pay our respects," Dead said anxiously.

"In the middle of the night?" Smitty asked. "When I saw lights, I thought you were vandals. Or more of those devil-worshiping hooligans."

"There **were** hooligans," Dean said. "Total... actual hooligans. They were all hopped up on The Drugs,... and worshiping some kinda Satan, and they got the jump on us. Stole our car. And I think they broke Sam's coccyx."

Sam shot Dean an annoyed glare.

"Is that Sam?" Smitty asked, and shined his flashlight on him. "Christ Almighty. You got big, son. Yes sir, you are the spittin' image of your granddaddy, rest his soul. Real handsome."

"Thanks," Sam said.

"It's too bad about yer tailbone," Smitty said. "Goddamn teenagers. You boys come on with me, we'll get ya sorted out."

"We just need a ride," Sam said.

"Nonsense," Smitty said. "I know you two been down on yer luck since the fire. Come on, I live right across the road these days. You can do a wash, maybe spend the night if ya need to. Yes sir."

Dean and Sam shared a look. A night at old Smitty's... _Double great._


	11. Ramble On

STULL, KANSAS - MORNING

Right about breakfast time in Smitty's dingy Winnebago. As he was an older man, he kept the heater a little too high and one could smell several aromas unavoidably associated with dog-ownership. All the shades were drawn. A Tommy Edwards mixtape played quietly enough not to wake anyone. In the "living room," Dean sat under a blanket in the only armchair, trying in vain to get some extra sleep, frustrated by how uncomfortable he was. Sam didn't seem to be having the same problem, as he slept lightly on the far more comfortable couch, which he seemed content to share with Smitty's scruffy old white shepherd.

"Sam," Dean said. "**Sam**. You awake?"

"No," Sam said, his eyes still closed.

"Switch with me," Dean said.

"No," Sam said. The dog started waking up and nosing it's nose in a nosy way on Sam's face.

"Come on, I can't sleep," Dean said. "This ain't your motor home. Don't bogart the couch."

Sam scratched the dog behind his ears and they both sat up together. Sam was wearing one of those good-for-almost-nothing free t-shirts from a morning zoo show and Bermuda shorts while his clothes were in the wash.

"I got the couch because you told Smitty I broke my ass-bone," Sam said.

"So get a butt donut and quit your bitchin'," Dean said, a note of hostility creeping into his voice.

The dog tensed up and began growling at Dean, looking at him like he was an especially provocative squirrel.

"I know," Sam said to the dog. "He's like this every morning."

Dean threw his blanket off in anticipation of having to make a strategic exit. He was wearing old army sweats from god knows when. The original "Morning Side Of The Mountain" began playing on the sound system. Sam and Dean both made a face.

"How long is this tape?" Sam wondered aloud. He took his phone off the counter and started scrolling through his address book.

"I dunno how much more of this old guy music I can take," Dean groused, putting his boots on.

"Now you know how _I_ feel," Sam said, then turned to the dog. "I'm so understood this morning." The dog licked his nose.

"Zep's timeless," Dean said. "And unlike your whiny chick-rock, their songs are actually _about_ something."

"If by 'something' you mean 'hobbits,'" Sam said snottily.

Dean took a deep breath in through his nose, glaring like he wanted to wring Sam's neck. "That was symbolism," he said. "Shut up."

"Oh," Sam said. "So not literal hobbits? More like pretend ones."

"_Shut up_," Dean said.

Sam and Dean stared at each other for a moment.

Sam smirked. "Did they go to Metaphordor?" he asked, trying not to laugh.

"I'm an inch away from goin' Tarantino on your ass," Dean grumbled.

"So what?" Sam asked. "You're gonna play crappy, Old Guy music until I'm super-bored? You're already Tarantino, Dean."

"You want an authentically broken coccyx?" Dean asked, getting to his feet. "Keep it up."

"I think my buddy Goose might have somethin' to say about that," Sam said, and turned to the dog, feigning excitement. "Right, Goosey? **Goose**!"

Goose let out a happy little woof (someone was saying his name!) and Sam grinned.

"Enjoy your honeymoon," Dean said, and he went in back to get his coat out of the dryer.

As Dean stood in the little hallway, something in the bedroom caught his eye. There was a big watercolor over the bed. It was simplistic, highly stylized and not very good, but pretty easy to make out: it featured people separated by a stone wall. On one side, a green woman, weeping, surrounded by little farm animals in a pasture. On the other side, a blue man and a gold woman embraced in a black room. There was a scroll held above the scene by cherubs that said, "St. Louis."

Dean shook his head in disapproval. "Yikes," he said to himself. He put his coat on and went out, leaving Sam staring at his phone's address book.

Dean started to say, "Hey, you need any help out here?" as he came down the little stairway. But as his eyes adjusted to the winter sun, Dean finally saw Stull in the light of day, a sight that slapped the words out of his mouth. The place had been devastated. Where they were parked, there wasn't a lot in the way of houses to begin with, mostly just farmland, but there wasn't a building within sight that wasn't demolished. Trees were bent and broken, the road was cracked. The Winnebago was berthed in a gravel driveway by the ruins of a farmhouse.

The cemetery across the road looked like the hypocenter of an explosion. The fence around the place it was knocked back and any headstones within were reduced to rubble - that's why the place had looked like a quarry the night before. The site was almost hypnotizing. Even as far away as they were, Dean could still see the winged silhouette clearly. But in the daylight, from that vantage point, he noticed something he'd managed to miss before. There was another silhouette.

"You come to help me back out?" Smitty asked.

"_Ahh_." Dean cringed a little. He hadn't noticed Smitty was there. "Can I just ask, what the hell happened here?" Dean said.

"You just answered yer own question," Smitty said. "Hell came and went. Yes sir, this is where The Lamb touched down."

"The Lamb?" Dean asked. "Wow, that's either the lamest nickname for a hurricane I've ever heard, or-."

"The Lamb of God," Smitty said kindly. "He that liveth and was dead. The one with the keys of Hell and of Death."

"Wait a minute," Dean said, profoundly confused. "Are you saying that this place was nuked..._ by Jesus_?"

"My Elma always knew this was gonna be where the Second Woe would peal off," Smitty said.

When he mentioned Elma, something in his voice trembled, but whatever wackadoo thing it was he was talking about, it seemed to make him proud.

"Sure," Dean said skeptically. He looked at the cemetery out of the corner of his eye. "God knows, I've seen weird."

"It only gets weirder," Smitty said. "You watch TV?"

"Not in a while," Dean said.

"Good," Smitty said. "Stay away from it. That's where you'll see him. He walks the earth with the face of a man. Swallows the stars of heaven. They'll bring that filth right into your home if you let 'em."

"Right," Dean said in a heavily patronizing tone. "That's how they getcha."

Smitty arched a brow at him. "I'm talkin' about the Beast, sonny," he said. "I know what it sounds like, but it ain't no laughin' matter. The dragon gave him his power, and his seat, and great authority."

Dean frowned. Some of this was starting to ring a bell. "What exactly did Elma say?" he asked.

"Enough to get her excommunicated," Smitty said. "It's one thing to believe the Lamb will come as in Revelation, but it's a whole other to say it's happenin' in Kansas within a year. Yes sir. Especially for a Mormon. They're a bit particular about things like that. I supposed they were sorry for how they cast her out when the Woe sounded. Some men from the government came in the next day, tellin' people it was a plane crash. But there weren't no wreckage. You could tell the older one was a practiced liar." He added confidentially, "The young one was a bit touched, if ya ask me."

"So, you saw this happen?" Dean asked, zipping his jacket up. "This 'woe' thing?"

"Elma saw it," Smitty said. "She didn't make it through, as you can imagine. Burned her eyes right out of their sockets, poor thing. But she insisted on bein' here, and no one ever got that woman to change her mind."

"I'm sorry," Dean said.

"She was a hard one," Smitty said. "Mean, she was, and smart as a whip. And life ain't the same without her. That's why I moved us over, so I could be near her. Yes sir. That, and someone has to watch over this place. They let the Beast loose, God only knows what'll jump out of that old pit next."

Dean looked a bit sick. "Shudder to think," he said.

"I'm gonna start the motor-home," Smitty said. "You guide me while I back out."

It took them about ten minutes, but eventually, they got on the road.

SMITTY'S WINNEBAGO - MINNESOTA HIGHWAY

Smitty drove his old motor-home east on I-70, ten minutes outside Lawrence. The dog was laying on the floor by his feet, practically under the gas pedal. Sam and Dean sat on the couch.

"You boys got family nearby?" Smitty asked.

"Not really," Sam said. "We're gonna take the bus."

Dean frowned at that.

"Well, the buses don't run down here no more," Smitty said. "But I can give ya'll a ride to the station in Kansas City, yes sir, ain't but an hour's drive from here."

"That'd be great, thanks," Sam said.

"Not that it's any of my business," Smitty said, "but where ya headed from there?"

"Sioux Falls," Sam said. "We got people there."

"Good to hear," Smitty said.

Dean gave Sam a look. "We do?" he whispered. "And since when do you know where we're going?"

Sam looked a little anxious, a little sad. "I wanted to wait 'til we were alone to say anything," he whispered. "But,... while you were out talking to Smitty, I... I called Bobby. And he answered."


	12. Minutiae

BUS STATION - KANSAS CITY, MISSOURI

Getting close to noon, it was a warm and sunny day in KC. Dean and Sam had left the Greyhound terminal and boarded a bus leaving for Sioux Falls. Even though it was practically departure time, there were only two other passengers on the bus. The boys took a couple of seats in the very back, Dean taking the window seat.

Sam peered at the sky outside. "You see that?" he said.

"See what?" Dean asked. "There's nothing-."

"Exactly," Sam said. "It's January in the Midwest and the sky is blue? It's warm out. An hour ago, we were in Kansas and it was raining death."

"Think there's anything to it?" Dean asked. "Me, I stopped quoting Chinatown years ago."

Sam sighed. "Yeah, I'm kinda starting to not care anymore," he said.

Dean snickered. "One of these days it's gonna be raining frogs," Dean said. "Won't even give a crap. Back on topic. Whose ass do we kick about this friggin'... Time Crotch, anyway?"

"Okay, we are _not _calling it that," Sam said. "Also, it kinda sounds like it was your ass."

"You believe _Crowley_?" Dean asked.

"We have nothing else to go on," Sam said. "All we can do is play 'what do we know' with half a deck."

"Yeah, right," Dean said concededly. "Okay, where do we start? We know we're not in the past-. We're not, right? I mean, Bobby's alive, but I'm still seeing all the same billboards. It's 2013."

"Seems like," Sam said.

"And I allegedly did... _something _that created a parallel universe," Dean said.

"Not parallel," Sam said. "Like, two equal branches, forking out from the same fixed point."

"Like a Time Crotch," Dean said smugly.

Sam glared at the seat in front of him, his mouth shrinking practically into a dot.

"No," Sam said, but moved on quickly. "We also know that, in this version of the present, we died during the Apocalypse."

"How do we even have a phone plan here?" Dean asked.

"Off-topic," Sam said.

"Right," Dean said. "I saw two angel stains at the cemetery-."

"Michael and Lucifer," Sam said.

"-So we know we took those goons down with us," Dean said.

They took a beat to be kind of pleased with themselves. In this version of events, they killed Michael and Lucifer. _Nice_.

"I'm guessin' Bobby can fill us in on the rest of the story," Dean said. "I mean, whatever changed, it sounds like it happened pretty close to zero hour. Or else more would be different."

"Or less," Sam added.

"Right," Dean said. "Then all we gotta do is..."

"Kill Crowley?" Sam asked. "'Cause we've been so rad at that for the past four years-. Well, three and a half."

"I thought it was two and a half," Dean said.

"You forgot about the year you were in Purgatory," Sam said.

"Yeah, but then what about the year I spent with Ben and Lisa?" Dean asked. "Are we just gonna split the difference?"

They sat for a moment and considered it, frowning thoughtfully.

"Off-topic," Sam said.

"So what if we don't play?" Dean said. "We don't find Crowley, we don't off ourselves. It's a bad pitch - I say we don't swing."

"Was that even a question?" Sam asked.

"I'm just sayin'," Dean said. "What happens if we don't? Based on what we know."

"Best case scenario?" Sam said. "We'll be stuck in this dimension forever and Crowley still wins."

"Awesome," Dean said bitterly. "What's the worst case scenario?"

"The... two dimensions try to occupy the same space at the same time," Sam said. "Both telescope. Time either stops, or it comes undone, and we're talking galactic annihilation."

Dean stared at Sam for a moment. "And which episode of Doctor Who are you basing that on?" he asked.

Sam looked a little embarrassed. "The Wedding of River Song," he said. "But, to whatever you're about to say: _Alex Kingston_."

Dean thought about it. "Touché," he said.

The bus finally started moving, pulling out onto the road. Dean squinted out the window as something caught his eye: a billboard - black with red lettering, in something very like the Hellraiser font. At the center, it read "Season Three" and beneath that, "Revelation 13:5."

SIOUX FALLS - SUNDOWN

Sioux Falls, the Winchester's one-time second home. The whole town was blanketed in ice, just as cold and gray as January in the Midwest ought to be. What little noise you might hear on a busy day was drown out by high winds and snow-plows. After about six hours on a bus and fifteen minutes in a cab, the boys arrived at Bobby's and saw something that scared the hell out of them.

Even at it's best, Bobby Singer's place had been a ramshackle nightmare for decades - the way there wasn't a dividing line between the giant salvage yard and the shuttered old house. Cars piled on top of cars. A place for everything and everything wherever Bobby felt like putting it, mind your own damn business. Even after the rottweiler had been gone for years, even after the house had burned down, it had still been a place that people avoided walking past at night. Without mentioning it to each other, Sam and Dean both held the same sad, little hope - that the house would be intact again, still spooky and cluttered, yet occupied and comforting. Like they remembered. But too much had changed there. They couldn't help feeling for a moment like they'd somehow forgotten the address.

The fence around the property was replaced with hedges and there were lampposts every so often to kill the gloom. The old garages were still outback, but the junkers were all gone - which seemed like an impossible feat, even with three and a half years to do it. There was too much snow to tell, but it seemed likely there was grass in the yard again. A neatly shoveled circular driveway led to the front of the house, there was a set of white wicker furniture on the porch and the roof was re-shingled. The house was brightly painted now. Friggin' yellow. The only clue to whose house it might be now was the beautifully restored blue Chevelle parked in the driveway. But the thought that this was where Bobby lived in this dimension was too much. The boys looked properly wigged.

Sam shook his head, at a loss. "I don't know," he answered.

"I didn't say anything," Dean said.

"Really?" Sam asked. "'Cause I could've sworn I just heard someone say, _'what the hell'_."

"It's okay, man," Dean said anxiously. "I heard it, too."

They walked up the driveway... of the cheerful, well-kept house. God, it was weird. Like a flash-back dream with bad intel. Someone turned off a light in the second story window and had moved the curtain aside, just a bit. They were being watched.

"What did you say to Bobby on the phone," Dean asked.

"Nothing," Sam said.

"Bobby was there and you didn't say anything?" Dean asked.

"I called my dead friend on the phone and he answered," Sam said. "I panicked."

Meanwhile, the front door swung open and someone stepped out onto the porch. It was Bobby, but again, some things had changed. He was a lot more groomed than the man they knew. Not the superficial version he broke out to impersonate law-enforcement, but full-on, haircut every week, "I got a beard-trimmer for Christmas" kind of groomed. He still dressed like an old redneck, but his clothes were newer, in better condition. He'd gotten some color, too. But he seemed more aged than he ought to have been by now. He had the sad, decrepit look of an ex-president. He also had a shotgun. A nice one, with a big, shiny suppressor. Sweet, but off-topic.

"Took you long enough," Bobby said. There was hostility in his voice. A severe smile on his face. He was so pissed off, it could count as a super-power.

He pulled the gun to his shoulder and aimed vaguely at Sam and Dean. They put their hands up.

"Bobby?" Dean said, trying not to freak out. "It's us, Bobby, we can explain."

"Yeah, I **bet** you can," Bobby said. "I don't know who your boss is, but tell him I said 'nice try'."

They braced themselves. Bobby aimed at Dean. But before he could pull the trigger, someone ran out ran out onto the porch.

"Bobby, stop!" Castiel shouted. "_It's them_."


	13. Losing Sam

BOBBY'S PLACE - SUNDOWN

Bobby took a step forward and to the side, putting himself between Castiel and the boys.

"Get back in the house," Bobby said in a low voice. He refocused, aimed his gun at Sam.

"Cas, take that thing away from him already!" Dean barked.

Castiel shook his head subtly, looking positively apologetic. But the fact that Dean asked made Bobby pause. He didn't lower the shotgun, but a sort of skeptical expression took over his face.

"Bobby, listen to me," Castiel said. "That's Sam and Dean - the real Sam and Dean. Put the gun down. Please." He reached out trepidly and set his hand on the barrel of the shotgun to lower it.

Bobby put the shotgun down, seething. "If you're really them," he said, "then you know what comes next."

Sam and Dean nodded grudgingly. Time for the tests. Bobby gave Castiel a look. Cas went into the house and the others followed.

Walking into this dimension's version of Bobby's house, the boys got another little shock. The books were all gone... That bears repeating. There wasn't a single book in sight. The furniture was appropriate to the rooms - a dinette set in the kitchen, etc. The study was a living room again. It had a large flat-screen television opposite a sectional coach. There was a new coat of paint on the kitchen cabinets, new appliances and the shutters were all open. The banister leading upstairs was replaced with something sturdier. House plants in every corner. The old wallpaper was still around and the floor wasn't varnished or anything, but the place was spotless. The last time the house was close to being in this kind of shape, the dead were rising.

Dean leaned in to Sam. "There's a friggin' **house** in this house," Dean whispered angrily. "What's a house doing in Bobby's house?"

Sam was too distracted to answer. He was staring longingly at something in the kitchen. "Dude, he has one of those Keurig things," he said.

Dean gave Sam a hard tap on the face. "Hey, don't start drinking the kool-aid," he said. "_My_ side, Sam, you're on _my_ side."

Sam nodded. "Right," he said. "Sorry."

Sam and Dean sat at the kitchen table. Bobby had put out shot glasses and was filling them with holy water, all the while keeping his back to the wall. And Castiel was... well, he was doing something at the stove. Bobby noticed.

"Will you get outta here?" Bobby asked, annoyed.

"You were letting it boil over," Castiel said.

Bobby shook his head and took silver knife from the sheath in his back pocket.

The boys drank their shots and Sam took off his jacket, rolled his sleeve back. As he did, Bobby gave him an odd look. He was holding something back. He handed Sam the knife and Sam cut his forearm. When he was done he passed the knife on to Dean, who did the same.

Bobby seemed satisfied after that, but when he relented, he slunk off to the living room with a conflicted, almost sad look in his eyes. He sat on the coach, next to something round and white. It looked like a throw pillow from a ways away, but no. It was a New Zealand white rabbit, and it was staring straight at Sam and Dean. They flinched when they saw it, over-reacting a tad.

"I think that varmint's mad-doggin' us," Dean said.

"Why is Bobby sitting with it?" Sam asked.

"That's Frank," Castiel said. "He's **my** rabbit, and he's okay to be on the couch."

The boys turned back to Castiel. They finally had a moment to notice that there were a few things different about him, too.

Castiel had always been a little bit like a character on Scooby-Doo: he always wore the same thing the same way and he was always a little on the stiff side (he just didn't have the excuse that it made animating him cheaper). So whenever there was something even a little off about him, it stood out. In this dimension, Castiel didn't wear an overcoat. He didn't have a necktie, let alone a screwy one, and he wore cuffed jeans instead of slacks. His hair was neat. He wore a v-neck navy sweater over a white Oxford shirt, and a pair of beat-up old army boots that looked more like something Bobby would wear. He just looked... _nerdier_, if that was even possible.

And he was cooking.

"Is Cas making spaghetti?" Sam whispered to Dean.

Dean grimaced. "Man, I hope that's not for us," he said.

"Yeah," Sam said halfheartedly. "Only... I'm really hungry."

Dean looked at Sam like he was turning into a pod person.

"What?" Sam whispered defensively. "It smells okay."

"It smells like Prego, dude," Dean said.

"You once called Prego your favorite vegetable," Sam said. "Look, it's been three years. Maybe he's learned to cook."

"I've watched this guy get outsmarted by a revolving door," Dean whispered. "I don't trust him with my internal organs."

The more they talked, the louder Castiel's cooking got. Finally, he brought two plates of spaghetti with garlic bread over to to them. He got them forks and practically slammed Dean's on the table in front him, giving him mighty bitch-face. He then went back to the stove, plating the rest of the pasta.

Sam and Dean eye-balled their food for a moment. Sam picked up his fork. Dean shook his head, eyes wide with warning: for the love of god, Sammy, _no_. Sam looked at Dean, then at the spaghetti, then back at Dean.

Sam took a deep breath. "See you hell," he said, and then dug in.


	14. Bizarro World

BOBBY'S PLACE - NIGHT

Dean was getting tired of watching Sam wolf down his spaghetti. He briefly thought about giving his a try, but couldn't bring himself to eat anything made by a guy who doesn't know how a necktie works. So, Dean went to the fridge for a beer, but got what was probably the worst shock of the day. Nearly everything in the refrigerator was healthy. Vegetables, fruit, bottled water, smoothies in ever color and... _vegan mayonnaise_. But no booze. Dean felt his stomach lurch - he was about to throw up a little. God help him if Sam ever saw this. Dean shut the fridge and turned back.

"What are you looking for, Dean?" Castiel asked. He'd been standing behind the refrigerator door.

Dean had to take a second to compose himself. "Just gettin' a beer," Dean said.

"We don't have alcohol in the house," Castiel said.

Dean glared at him for a moment, then pointed toward the living room. "That the real Bobby?" Dean asked, dead serious.

"If you're thirsty, we have plenty to drink," Castiel said. He opened the fridge and gestured helpfully to the smoothies. "You can have any one of these you want... Except that one." He pointed to the only orange one. "_**That one's mine**_," he said darkly. It sounded like a threat.

Dean nodded, tried to smile. "I'll keep that in mind," he said.

Castiel smiled in an unsettling, dead-eyed way. He got two green smoothies out of the fridge, set them on the table in front of Sam, then got the two plates he made up and brought them into the living room. It'd been a little while since Dean had witnessed anything that frightening.

"Dude, did you see that?" Dean whispered to Sam.

He turned to see Sam with a smoothie raised to his lips. This annoyed Dean no end.

"What am I even asking you for?" Dean whispered angrily. He sat down again, leaning back from the table. "This is Donita all over again."

"Who's Donita?" Sam asked, starting to get defensive.

"You remember when Dad used to take us to that house with the big lizard skeleton hanging from the ceiling?" Dean asked.

"No," Sam said.

"Of course not," Dean said, all pissy. "Donita Hayes was this anthropologist Dad visited for a few weeks out in Owensboro, he used to take us over to her house. Said she was helping him on a job, but I could tell somethin' not-right was goin' on. We'd have these big, corny dinners there and they'd act like everything was normal. You agreed with me that it was sketchy."

"How old was I?" Sam asked, in a sort of dry, exasperated town.

"_Old enough_," Dean said. "The point is, we were gonna do a walk out. Together. But then 'Donita' gave you a box of crayons and some paper, and suddenly you two were solid buds. You Judased me, Sam."

"How. Old. Was I?" Sam asked again, getting ticked.

"It doesn't matter," Dean whispered. "You always do this to me - you're a friggin' comfort whore."

Sam gawked at him, scoffing, too taken aback for words. Because_ nuh-uh_.

"You wanna ignore how weird everything is here?" Dean asked quietly. "That Bobby's a teetotaler with a clean house? Or how about Cas eating and drinking?"

"We've seen Cas do that before," Sam whispered.

"Only when something wasn't right," Dean said. "Cas ate his weight in Mickey Dee's because famine was screwing with his head."

"What about Gabriel and Balthazar?" Sam asked. "What if angels just start eating after a while?"

"Gabriel was a basket-case," Dean said. "The guy ate enough sugar to power daily trips to Cardassia. And Balthazar drank because he was slut. And _that's how we live with it_."

"Look, we-." It took a second for that last bit to connect. Sam shook it off. "We still have to figure out where Crowley is," he said. "If anyone's gonna know, it's Cas and Bobby. So just... let it fly for now."

Meanwhile, in the living room, Bobby and Castiel sat on the couch, the rabbit between them, their untouched spaghetti on the coffee table. Bobby was resting elbows on his knees, occasionally re-adjusting his cap. He seemed depressed and a bit anxious. Castiel was watching Sam and Dean's hushed arguing from the corner of his eye like it was a stakeout. He picked up the rabbit and held it to his chest, petting it in a listless, almost sinister way. Like a Bond villain.

"Sam's hair is magnificent," he said matter-of-factly. "We need to find out what happened. Tell them what's been going on here."

"It'll keep 'til the morning," Bobby said. "You find a book that works?"

Castiel turned back to Bobby, his expression softening. "I thought,... The Tempest," he said. "It looked involved. And it's thick."

"Uh, Bobby?" Sam asked. He walked over to the couch, arms folded. It felt weird to him, asking for something from Bizarro Bobby. "We were wondering if we could crash some place?"

"Well, there's a guest room now," Bobby said, throwing a look in the direction of the back hallway, "you're both welcome to it."

Sam looked intrigued. "Thanks," he said, in a quiet, distracted kind of way. He backed through the kitchen until he was closer to the hallway than Dean. "Dibs on the bed," he said quickly, before sprinting off to find the guest room.

"Sam!" Dean shouted after him, getting up. "You don't get to bogart other people's stuff, Sam!" He took off after Sam.

Bobby rolled his eyes. "There's _two beds_," he muttered. "Idjits."

Castiel shook his head. "I never realized how odd they were," he said, all the while petting his rabbit.


	15. Up and Over

BOBBY'S PLACE - MORNING

When Dean woke up the next morning to his stomach cramping. He sat up, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the light. The guest room at Bobby's was kinda crappy - the room was all brown and there was a lot of weird crap on the walls, like you'd see at a mom'n'pop. License plates, old tin signs. One of those singing fish. Dean laughed under his breath when he saw it, being the only person in the world other than Bobby who still thought those were funny.

The room was still decorated for the holidays and there was a string across the wall with Christmas cards hanging from it. One had been taken down and left on the dresser, but it wasn't like that the night before. Dean got up and checked one out. The front had "Blessings of Christmas" by Thomas Kinkade. Inside, the words "Merry Christmas 2012" were printed in red ink. There were little notes written in it, one that said "I promise we'll make it next year! Love, Jody". There was also a toony little sketch of a creepy-staring spider monkey that said "DOOM" under it. It was signed by Annie Hawkins. Son of bitch. Dean looked at the bed Sam had slept in. It was empty. Hell, it was made.

Dean dropped the card and went down stairs. He could hear a news story blaring from the radio: "...Radio City Slasher, who assaulted game-show host Rodrick Spode last year, has now been identified as seventeen-year-old Alfred Lake, who went missing from his mother's home in Sinclair, Wyoming just prior to the attack. Previously, Pastor Abin Cooper of the Five Points Trinity Church had claimed responsibility for the stabbing, despite having an ironclad alibi. Police are now conducting a nation-wide manhunt for Lake..."

Dean made a little frowny face to that, but underneath the story, he heard a sound that made him light up like a happy, little elf. Meat was sizzling. Dean rushed into the kitchen just in time to watch Sam moving breakfast sausages onto a plate piled with scrambled eggs and toast. There were groceries on the counter, so real eggs and sausages.

"Saturated fats," Dean said in awe.

Sam turned back. He looked so effing happy. "You didn't eat dinner," he started to say with a shrug.

Dean clapped Sam on the back. "Sometimes I regret tryin' to give you to the mailman," he said, grinning like a jackass. He started snooping through the shopping bags. "Did you see the-." Dean stopped. There was beer in one. And lemon meringue pie in another.

Dean pointed at Sam. "_You_," he said. He held his arms out and started walking toward Sam. "Bring it in, buddy! Up and Over, come on!"

Sam's eyes widened and he shook his head, taking a step back. He remembered what "Up and Over" meant.

"Too bad," Dean said, "it's happening!"

Sam braced himself, his face all scrunched up. Dean laughed maniacally and lunged toward Sam like he was going to tackle him at the waist, but came back up with Sam hiked over his shoulder.

"Yer a good man, Charlie Brown!" Dean said, and went on laughing. He grabbed his plate, took it to the table. "You see that Christmas card? I figured that's why you were in such a good mood."

"Dean, I'm gonna ralph," Sam said. But he couldn't help smiling.

"You're never making me breakfast again, are you?" Dean asked.

"Nope."

Dean put Sam down on the counter. "You see the card?" he asked again.

"Which one?" Sam said. He hopped off the counter and dusted the toast crumbs off his ass. "There's one with Rufus' name on it, one with Annie's. Hers is from a month ago. So, yeah, big morning." He grinned and started cleaning up.

Dean took a seat, pulled another chair around to put his feet up on and started eating. "There's parts of this Time-Crotch thing that ain't half bad," Dean said. But as he thought about it, he noticed someone peering into the kitchen.

The scene from Castiel's perspective was chaotic. The big mess on the counter, the radio turned up, the feet on chairs, the saturated fats. Castiel wasn't happy. But he didn't say anything, he just went and looked in the fridge. What he found made him breathe heavy. _His orange smoothie was gone_. He closed his eyes for a moment, got a blue smoothie and closed the door, poker-facing like one could not believe. He went to the table to sit down, but stopped in front of Dean.

"You're sitting in my chair," Castiel said.

Dean smirked and started eating his eggs slower, looking at him pointedly.

Castiel gave him a withering look. "Fine," he said, and sat down on the other side of the table. You would've thought he'd been asked to leave the country for the amount of pouting he was doing over it.

"Bobby wants to talk to you both," Castiel said, opening his smoothie. "You need to know what's happened here."

"Great," Dean said. "Let's start with how you're human now."

Sam turned and looked at them. "Whoa, what?" he said.

"Mortal," Castiel corrected. "You don't remember what happened?"

"While we were dead?" Dean asked. "Nah, we breezed out."

"You're mortal?" Sam asked.

Castiel frowned at them both. "I was mortal the last time we saw each other," he said.

Dean looked completely lost, but Sam seemed to be catching on.

"You mean in Detroit?" Sam asked. "Before we went to say yes to Lucifer?"

Castiel nodded: _duh_.

Just then, Bobby came in carrying a laptop under his arm. He looked the kitchen over and then looked at Castiel. He seemed nervous.

"Everything okay in here?" Bobby asked.

"What happened to you guys at Stull?" Sam asked.

That confused Bobby. And seemed to hurt him a little. "We didn't make it to Stull, son," he said.

Sam and Dean shared a look. Now they could put a little more together. Bobby and Castiel never went to Stull Cemetery when Lucifer and Michael fought each other. Lucifer didn't kill them, Castiel was never resurrected, he never got his powers back. So, had he been living with Bobby ever since?

"Then how'd we win it?" Dean asked. "If you guys weren't there to distract Michael, how come they didn't nuke the planet?"

"Beats the hell outta me," Bobby said. "I figured we got lucky, somethin' out there went pearshaped."

"We distracted _Michael_?" Castiel asked.

"You holy-fired the crap outta him," Dean said proudly. "Then Lucifer exploded you. Most badass thing I'd ever seen."

Castiel went back to his smoothie, a little smile creeping onto his face.

Bobby didn't looked too thrilled. "Maybe we should catch you two up on what's been happening here," he said.

"We saw," Sam said. "Annie's card in the guest room? Rufus? And you guys are both good." He smiled, a little breathless with glee. This dimension was awesome. "Sounds like things turned out great."

Bobby and Castiel shared a look of their own.

"I got somethin' you need to see," Bobby said, and put his laptop on the table. This wasn't gonna be good.


	16. Inferno

ST. LOUIS - MORNING

It was the beginning of another sunny day at Heathcliff Studios, a quaint old movie lot in Missouri that had been back in business for the last three years. The architecture was in the Spanish style, stucco walls, with a high-rise at the hub of the lot. There were a few crew members going about their work outside - a woman from the wardrobe department moving a large rack of clothes, a landscaper with a leaf blower, some set decorators - but not much activity. A group of people left one of the sound stages and walked together, talking. A familiar figure at the center of the group was essentially holding court.

"I've been told by Standards and Practices we're crossing the line with Butcher's costume," Crowley said. "Apparently, focus groups found the human-skin jacket to be in bad taste. We need to think of something less objectionable, but equally dynamic..."

Yes, the Crowley of this dimension. He looked a heck of a lot happier than the one we're used to seeing. He was clean-shaven, a bit more casual, and well-rested. He smiled more easily.

"They're aware of the hell theme, yes?" one man asked. He was swarthy and had that somewhat elusive, know-it-when-you-see-it look of a doctor. "They get their way in this, sooner or later, anything's on the chopping block."

"I hear what your saying, King," Crowley said. "But it's a small issue with wardrobe. We're playing ball so they can't say we're difficult."

"They're the ones splitting hairs," King said. "Besides, it's the principle of thing."

"We _not principled_," Crowley explained, in a slightly exasperated tone. "The network's looking for a fight, so we're not giving them one."

Another guy in the crowd snickered. "What are we, French?" the guy said.

Crowley stopped in his tracks, staring at the guy. Everyone stopped with him.

"Who the hell is he?" Crowley asked.

"Shipley," the guy said.

"Lydecker," Crowley said.

Another guy in the group stepped forward. "He's your new P.A., sir," Lydecker said.

Standing next to each other, these two guys fit the same basic description - six foot tall, blond male in his mid-forties, corporate dress - but they wore it so differently. The first one, Shipley, was a Steve McQueen type, broad and well-built, on the scruffy side, with a smirky face and a New York accent. The second guy, Lydecker, had an English accent. Skinny, pale and very posh, he looked like a mod throwback. He had late-nineties Bowie-hair and wore a blue skinny-fit suit.

"What happened to Ellsworth?" Crowley asked Lydecker.

"You set him on fire, sir," Lydecker said. "It was **tremendous**."

"That's right," Crowley said, smiling nostalgically. He gave Shipley a cold look. "I don't know how you got a job here with that chauvinist, knuckle-dragging attitude, but your flapping lips reflect on _me_ now."

Shipley laughed nervously. "It was a joke," he said. "You know... the French?"

Crowley looked at him like he was a jerk. "No one's laughing," he said seriously.

Crowley started walking again, but before anyone even tried to catch up, he stopped, looking like he forgot something.

"Do we have any landscapers on the payroll?" he asked thoughtfully.

A shot rang out.

Crowley stumbled forward, smoke rising from the back of his right shoulder. An electric shock went through him. King went to his side.

Crowley caught his breath. "On his heels, girls!" he yelled.

Two biker chicks happily tore off after the gunman. The others gathered around Crowley.

"King," Crowley said, "bring the car around. Noole, you're with me. Legion, you're on security. Lock us down - nothing gets in, nothing gets out." He turned to Shipley and Lydecker. "Dempsey and Makepeace, to the front gates. You see any pigs: damage control. Officially, this was a special effects malfunction. And the rest of you, spread out!...**_I want that landscaper_**!"

Everyone sped off with their orders. Shipley and Lydecker ran off for the front gates. Lydecker took a wallet out of his jacket, checked the badge and I.D. inside it and handed it to Shipley. They stopped when they reached the curb.

"Why's King gotta drive the guy?" Shipley asked, winded. "I heard Crowley could do that, uh... that 'Nightcrawler' thing."

"He can," Lydecker said, "but nothing can teleport on studio grounds. It's a spell."

"Right about now, you gotta wonder over crap like that," Shipley said.

Lydecker shook his head. "Nah," he said. "See, that sniper's not human. And now? He's not getting out of the studio alive."

"You think?" Shipley asked, keeping an eye peeled for police cruisers.

"Dolly and Mog are after 'em," Lydecker said. "We'll be lucky if there's anything left to torture... You were a detective?"

Shipley grinned. "Manhattan," he said. "How'd you know?"

"I was an inspector for the London Met," Lydecker said. "You have the look." He put a hand out. "Thomas."

"Fred," Shipley said, taking his hand.

"_Well_. Welcome to the Inferno, Fred."

BOBBY'S PLACE - MORNING

Everyone gathered around Bobby's laptop to watch video he'd cued up of some TV show. There was an arena packed with screaming fans, some holding signs. The place looked like a dark cavern, with giant torches, armored guards and bones coming through the walls. The camera panned over the crowd, and then to a pit with a young garage band. They had a slightly goth look, like the venue, and most of them were the dark and brooding, 3rd Eye Blind wannabe types, but the lead singer was a washed-out, snotty-looking blond guy.

"Are you ready for Damnation?!" he roared into the microphone. The audience went nuts. "Are you ready for the Inferno?!" There was more cheering. "Are you ready... for the Devil?!" Cue the sound of people losing their little minds. He lowered his voice, trying for a gravelly, Marilyn Manson thing. "He's the host of our show, the man who'll have you saying, '_Get thee behind me_.' I want you to applaud like your lives depend on it - 'cause they do! Put them hands together, for our Lord and Downfall, Mr. Crowley, the King of Hell!"

Sam and Dean looked at each other: holy crap, did that kid just call Crowley the Devil _on TV_?

The camera panned to the entrance, effectively made up to look like the mouth of a cave. As expected, Crowley walked out to thunderous applause. Carrying a cordless microphone, he wore a black wool Milford coat with his suit, and a red waistcoat and necktie - he looked very Satany, thank you. Crowley took a moment or two to bask in screaming adoration.

Meanwhile, Sam and Dean looked extra-pissed.

"It's good to be back," Crowley said, shutting the crowd up. "Hiatus was a bitch." There was agreement cheering. "We'll begin here in a moment, we're just waiting on my lovely co-host." This warranted cheers and whistles. "My partner in crime, my totem in the event that any Inception-like scenario should occur." He got a decent laugh for that one. "He's a delicate rose amongst the dick-weeds and he likes to make an entrance. Give it up hard for my special angel... _Balthazar_!"


	17. Another Dimension

THE PENTHOUSE - MORNING

The top floor of the high rise at Heathcliff Studios was a penthouse apartment. Elegantly appointed, it almost looked like a Spanish castle. The main area had a giant, sliding glass wall that cut off the living room from the antechamber, though the wall was currently open. In the living room, there was an antique bar, a coffee table that looked like a pewter coffin, and very large flat screen television. An old vintage Wurlitzer jukebox played Dusty Springfield's "I Only Want to Be with You". Instead of a couch or chairs, there was a grand piano with a wide bench.

It was a good thing the piano bench was wide, as there were currently three people testing the capacity. Two petite brunette women - twins dressed as security guards - were on either side of a man, necking and groping the daylights out of him. The ladies' name tags read "Moeko" and "Keiko".

The meat in their proverbial sandwich was the Balthazar of this dimension, for all intents and purposes, exactly as we knew him. He looked amused with the twins, but restless, and kept eyeing a tray that sat atop the piano. It had an unopened bottle of whisky and two black lowball glasses on it.

Out in the hallway, one of the elevators opened, and Crowley and King stepped out. Crowley had been using King as a crutch, but shoved him away as they got near the door.

"Get to Legion," Crowley panted, actually sounding thrilled. "It's all hands, today, I can feel it."

"You don't want me to take that bullet out of you?" King asked, looking slightly relieved.

"You shidiots did enough letting Urkel into the lot," Crowley said, "I don't wanna see any of you again until you've found him."

King looked properly threatened, and being apparently obsequious, he nodded and went back to the elevator. Crowley straightened up the best he could, a shock going through him as he did, and went on to the apartment. When he came in, he saw the scene as we'd left it, Balthazar and the security guards. He took a moment to roll his eyes.

"There's an intruder on the lot," Crowley said. "We need everyone on security! _Move_!"

The ladies broke apart from Balthazar and were suddenly all business. They both did a little fist pump and shouted "_Ganbarimashou_!" in unison before running out of the apartment to kick something's ass.

Balthazar got up with them and headed for the door, but Crowley caught his elbow to stop him, though it clearly pained him to move.

"I need a favor," Crowley said.

As Balthazar turned back, he saw the ugly, weeping wound on Crowley's back. "Mignon," was all he could say.

"What happened to the sofa?" Crowley asked cluelessly, his voice hoarse now from yelling.

"I'm writing a musical," Balthazar said, and he helped Crowley over to sit at one end of the piano bench.

Balthazar opened the coffin table and got out a Flash Gordon lunchbox full of first aid. He sat beside Crowley and started cutting the fabric away from the wound.

"Why the hell isn't King here?" Balthazar said, sounding a little desperate. "You know I'm no good at this."

"Just get the bullet out," Crowley said. He turned so that Balthazar was behind him and braced himself on the piano. "The boys let me down again. I'm running out of stupid, worthless things to compare them to."

"I liked 'bowl of mice,'" Balthazar said. "Have a whiskey?"

"I told you, I'm on the wagon," Crowley said.

"Present circumstances," Balthazar reminded.

He examined the wound. The bullet was in there deep, tweezers weren't gonna get this done. Balthazar got a hold of Crowley's shoulder with one hand, the other he held before the wound, slowly rubbing his finger tips together - it looked like he was miming twisting and pulling an invisible thread from the wound. Staring, trying to concentrate, his re-seated himself on the bench to the he was facing Crowley's back, a leg on either side of him.

Balthazar smiled. "I just feel like we're playing bobsleds," he said, delighted.

"Stop straddling me," Crowley said dryly, "this isn't a casting couch."

"If you tell the twins that, I'm in trouble," Balthazar said.

Crowley looked a little grossed out. "You weren't de-flowering the night watchmaids on _the bench I'm sitting on right now_, were you?"

"Of course not," Balthazar said. "Some little attention whore had to get himself shot and interrupted us." He eyed the whisky again. "You know, we were such a laugh at first, you and I. Now look at us. I think the last time we played a game, you kneed me in the pills."

"We weren't playing a game," Crowley said. "It was Cinema St. Louis and you tackled me in the aisle. _Again_."

"Well, we _all_ tackled you," Balthazar said, "that's how you play 'Get down, Mr. President.'"

"I wasn't playing," Crowley said.

"_I know_," Balthazar said fondly. "That's why you're always Mr. President."

Crowley glared at him over his shoulder.

"Don't give me that look," Balthazar said, "I didn't make up the rules. So, should we tell the press? The last time that little nerd shot you, our viewing numbers went through the roof."

"Last time they wouldn't have had to search the backlot for a suspect," Crowley said, shifting uncomfortably. "It's just a bit easier to avoid police scrutiny when they're not around to watch you torturing people in common areas-. **Ow**."

Another shock went through Crowley and Balthazar winced. Oops.

"Besides," Crowley went on, determined to get to his point, "I don't think I can take anymore pity right now. Like that pandering bollocks you thought up for the premiere?"

"Are you kidding me?" Balthazar said. "They loved that."

"For now," Crowley said. "Ever since I gave you input on my character, he's turned into a weenis. You're taking the menace out of the show. I think it's a mistake."

"This again," Balthazar sighed. "There's no _real_ menace in the show, Mignon."

"Who's fault is that?"

"Lord, just admit what this is really about," Balthazar said wearily. "You can't separate yourself from the fictional Crowley."

Crowley gawked. Who can't what? "That's... _rubbish_," he said.

"I'm right and you know it," Balthazar said. "The same thing happened to that little tit who played Harry Potter, and it landed him in therapy. You're always sticking up for Fake-Crowley. Anytime someone criticizes him, you take it personally. You don't like him being vulnerable and you can't stand to see him lose. _But you have to_. You have to let him fail occasionally, that's what endears the audience. When you want to make a deal with a human, don't you make yourself as appealing as possible?"

"I'm already damn near intolerably appealing as it is," Crowley said. "I might misdirect people when necessary, but if I don't at least project an aura of ruthless self-interest, people will know they're being had. I've played this character a hundred times, I know what I'm doing. He's the villain, they're supposed to hate him. Fear him."

"He's a **fictional character**," Balthazar said, so tired of this.

"So's Pinhead," Crowley said.

Crowley couldn't see Balthazar roll his eyes. "I'm sure they have plenty of nightmares about you, too," Balthazar said half-heartedly.

"Don't patronize me."

"Humans want to throw their souls at your feet," Balthazar said, "they just don't know it yet. That's why we have to show them your character has other dimensions."

"_Says you_," Crowley said in the snottiest voice he could muster. "Fake-Crowley is **my** character and he's never failed me. He's fearsome and heartless, and you're turning him into a sympathetic-. **Ow**!"

"What?"

"You're twisting it," Crowley said, in a sad little guilt-trip voice.

"It's doing less damage this way," Balthazar said, "don't be such a baby."

"Am not," Crowley said, "_you're twisting it_."

Balthazar had to fight to concentrate. "Well, whining isn't going to help, is it?" he asked.

"When you have a lush with double-vision and butterfingers trying to dig a magic bullet out of _your_ back, then you can lecture me on stiff upper-lips," Crowley said.

"It's almost out," Balthazar assured him, "but you need to stop clenching. Just take a deep breath and relax all your muscles."

Crowley smirked. "Now you're just doing that on purpose," he said.

Balthazar was smirking, too. "_Maybe_," he said. "But listen, if you feel a flash-back coming on, warn me." Finally having dug out the bullet, he held it up over Crowley's shoulder to show him. "There. Congratulations, it's a boy."

Crowley looked back at the bullet with a mixture of disdain and boredom. "I shall call him Tiberius," he said, and flicked the bullet across the room. "Now, about this 'other dimensions' crap - it feels like an overshare. TMI. I thought the rule was, 'always leave them wanting more?'"

Balthazar loaded a surgical stapler. "They can't very well want more if you've only given them Diet Squat in the first place," he said. He started stapling Crowley's gunshot wound closed. "You have to wet their appetites. Let me know if I'm doing this too tight. Sometimes my mind wonders and I get artistic with the seems. I could have a career in this - what do you think?"

"Kudos on changing the subject," Crowley said, only mildly irritated by the stapler. "Very subtle. I thought we were talking shop?"

"We were," Balthazar said. "You said a thing, I said a thing. Yours was wrong. Point: Balthazar. I'm beginning to enjoy stapling you. Is that perverted?"

"Will you shut up about the bloody stapler?" Crowley said, stifling a laugh. "What's the point in having a demon character and an angel character if they meet in the middle? The audience isn't _that_ stupid."

"Oh, they're _fairly_ stupid," Balthazar drawled.

"Fine," Crowley said, "but logically-."

"Logic has nothing to do with it," Balthazar said. He'd finished stapling and went on to cleaning and dressing the wound, using more tape than was necessary - he was all thumbs at this part. "People stopped wanting goodie-goodies and soulless bastards in the sixties. Honestly, antiheroes are the biggest thing now. So we give them an angel who's not so good, and a demon who's not so bad. There, all done."

"Good," Crowley said, all maxed out. "I think I need go to lay down... for a year."

He started to get up, but Balthazar stopped him. "You have to stay elevated," Balthazar said.

"Since when?" Crowley asked.

"Since they started shooting at you with magic bullets," Balthazar said sternly.

Crowley shrugged slightly. "_Touché_."

"Here, lean on me," Balthazar said.

Crowley shot Balthazar a look over his shoulder and the two of them proceeded to carry on brief eyebrow conversation:

CROWLEY'S EYEBROWS  
(You're kidding, right?)

BALTHAZAR'S EYEBROWS  
(Would I kid you at a time like this?)

CROWLEY'S EYEBROWS  
(Whatever. We spend _way_ too much time together.)

BALTHAZAR'S EYEBROWS  
(Yeah, but we're getting pretty good at this.)

With a great deal of pain and effort on his part, Crowley sat back carefully. Balthazar had one arm around Crowley's good shoulder and the other around his waist, letting him rest while trying to keep the weight off his wound.

Crowley let his head fall back on Balthazar's shoulder, trying to breathe. "If you tweet this, I'll kill you," he said. "Moral ambiguity is getting old. Besides, even if you're right, they're not gonna buy it coming from me." He smiled a happy, nostalgic little smile. "What I did in the first season, _that_ was brilliant. When I said I skin neighborhood cats to make seat covers for my car. And bragged that the unpaid children who make our t-shirts are all Americans. All those pissy little post-its we got from the network."

"I know," Balthazar said, "everyone wanted your head and you barely got any souls of your own all season. But remember when we did that Q&A during the first finale? That goth kid said he thought the show would be better if I wasn't in it."

"Spotty little pillock," Crowley grumbled.

"He wasn't talking about _me_," Balthazar said, "he was talking about my character."

"He was talking out of his ass," Crowley said. "People like him don't understand anything about literary symmetry, internal conflict, thematic unity. They think they can dictate to an artist."

"_Mm-hm_," Balthazar hummed, using up the world's supply of sass, "and you bit his head off. Remember the standing ovation you got? And how your soul count spiked?"

"Because I was being scary," Crowley said.

"Because you were standing up for someone else," Balthazar corrected.

Crowley looked ticked for a moment. "Rub it in," he growled.

"I will," Balthazar said merrily. "You were adorable, and now you're adored. See how that works? It was so elegant, someone on the wiki thinks we planned it. They love you."

"They think I'm in the way," Crowley said bitterly.

Where the hell did that come from?

"Of what?" Balthazar asked. "There wouldn't even _be_ a show if it wasn't for you. You're the brains, you're the straight man - so to speak."

"Don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about," Crowley said, in the bitchiest, most accusatory voice that ever was. "I see the two of you - the longing stares, the way you're all over each other when we shoot the promos. 'Dollthazar.' You're glory-hogs, both of you."

Balthazar choked on a laugh. "Dollthazar?" he asked incredulously. "Did you Google yourself again?" He gave Crowley a smack on the hip. "I told you, Google is poison. And anyway, I thought Dolly and I were called 'Bally,' that's so much punchier."

"_Ha_!"

"I'm allowed on the internet," Balthazar said. "I'm not the one who can't handle criticism from the vocal minority. But if people didn't love the format, they wouldn't tune in. It's one thing to add characters and let them evolve, but chucking out any of the main ingredients would be incredibly stupid. Like you said, we're not taking dictation."

Crowley stared resignedly at the ceiling and sighed. "The fans want me out of the way," he said. "They think if I wasn't there, you and Dolly would be a thing." The thought obviously made his skin crawl. "You know what they call me on Tumblr?"

"'The Interrupting Cow,'" Balthazar answered.

But as soon as he'd said it, Crowley looked back at him with an absolutely mortified expression, one that suggested this was the first he'd heard of that particular moniker. Balthazar grimaced when he realized what he'd done.

"**_They call me The Interrupting Cow?!_**" Crowley screamed, positively enraged.

"Only the die-hard shippers," Balthazar said, petting Crowley's arm. "They're entitled little beasts, you can't listen to them."

Crowley turned away. His anger faded and he gave a weary, dejected snort.

"Poor Mignon," Balthazar cooed, in his most condoling voice. "And here I'd assumed this was Crossroads 101. No one knows _what_ they want. Not until someone shakes it in front of them."

"Is that the logic behind your wardrobe?" Crowley asked listlessly.

"Do you recall," Balthazar said, "before Dolly and Mog signed on - that poll we had on the website? We asked the fans, 'what would you most like to see on the show,' and what won by a landslide?"

Crowley made his impassive face. "I don't remember," he said.

"I didn't think you would," Balthazar said, giving Crowley a bit of a squeeze, "so I've created a simple mnemonic device to jog your memory. It goes, 'Crowley and Balthazar, sitting in a tree...'"

"_Settle down_," Crowley said, trying not to grin.

"And that wasn't even an option on the poll," Balthazar went on. "It was a write-in. A shut-out victory for Crowlthazar. They thought they saw something between us and it intrigued them - and that's all there is to this whole Bally mess. Besides, we need you interrupting the banter, it keeps the show on track. It protects my virtue and maintains a level of unresolved sexual tension. You can never cut the U.S.T. - just look what happened on the X-Files."

They both made a face at that: too soon.

"And you're not shagging that troll?" Crowley asked.

"I swear on our Webby," Balthazar said, looking just a bit shifty as he did. "Look, you wanna find out how much the public really loves you?"

Crowley looked at him like he was effing crazy. "_No_."

Balthazar kept going, ignoring Crowley. "In the next episode," he said, "I'll go on and on about how nippy the arena gets in the winter, shake like a chihuahua through the whole show."

"You already do that," Crowley said.

"But next time I do it," Balthazar said gleefully, "put your coat on me like I'm Marilyn in Bus Stop."

Crowley couldn't help a chuckle. "That's insipid," he said. "And contrived."

"I know," Balthazar whispered in his ear. "They'll love it."

"You can't think they're gonna fall for something that ham-fisted," Crowley said.

"Like a ton of rabid, sexually-frustrated bricks," Balthazar said. "ET news will be playing that clip so much, you'll regret it inside an hour. Trust me, we'll sell it and the audience will go bonkers. It'll be the moment that launched a thousand ships. Your soul count will sky-rocket. Just remember to wear a short-sleeved shirt."

"Admit it," Crowley said, "you're just doing this to get my new coat."

"You've got me," Balthazar said. "Now, do you want a drink or not?"

Crowley thought about it. "One couldn't hurt," he said.

"There's my little wino," Balthazar said brightly. He opened the whiskey and poured a couple of glasses, handed one to Crowley.

"Think there's Mog and Crowley fans?" Crowley asked, a bit hopefully. "Some wank like that?"

"Not yet," Balthazar said. "Apparently, you thus far only have eyes for me."

"How old-fashion of me," Crowley said. "When did that start, anyway? I don't recall us ever shaking _that_ in front of anyone."

From the attitude in his expression, Balthazar clearly didn't believe him. "You don't remember what we did for the half-time show?" Balthazar asked.

"We did a sword-fight," Crowley said, not getting it.

"We tangoed," Balthazar corrected him.

"_With swords_," Crowley said. "It was a metaphor. The battle between Good and Evil. Too subtle for the masses?"

"I don't think 'subtle' is the word, Mignon," Balthazar said. "You licked my neck."

"Is that all?" Crowley asked. "Imaginative little sods, aren't they?"

"Bless them, they are."

Balthazar held his drink up and Crowley clinked glasses with him. Salud.


	18. The Souls

BOBBY'S PLACE - MORNING

Sam and Dean gaped at the laptop screen when they heard Balthazar's name.

Upon finally making his entrance, when Balthazar stepped out, the cheering was damn near deafening. If he wasn't the star of the show, it might've needed a re-tool. His show wardrobe was very similar to his usual outfit, but in shades of dark blue. (More angelic?) The band played the intro to Rush's "Limelight."

Balthazar met Crowley in frame, turning to the audience in general, and pointed to the band. "Outside Her Syndrome, ladies and gentlemen," he said into his mic, barely audible over the audience. He waited for the screams to die down. "Welcome back, my darling Zealots. Be honest - didn't you miss having us sitting on your shoulders?"

"We certainly missed having you to sit on," Crowley said. He sneered at the audience, gesturing grandly to them as he spoke. "Our squalid gallery of leering spawn," he said. "I thought we had pest control in last month. What are they're spraying you with that keeps you coming back?"

"I have a theory," Balthazar began.

But the fans were laughing so much, he didn't finished. It was too weird: a demon and an angel, playing cute for a studio audience. Balthazar was pouring on warm and fuzzies and Crowley was essentially wicked witching the crowd. They were like the theme park versions of themselves, and the audience loved it - every joke got a decent laugh.

"Enough, enough," Balthazar said, and then turned to the camera, addressing the folks in TV Land. "Before we start arguing about who sprayed what on where, let's have a peak at the Tally and reset for the new season."

"The Soul Tally is basically exactly what it sound like," Crowley explained to the camera. "Everyone watching at home, along with everyone here in the pit, has a chance to bolster our efforts by committing their souls to the cause-."

"And you get to choose where your soul goes," Balthazar said. "All you have to do is print out a copy of our standard contract from our website, make your mark on the dotted line, and send it to us care of Heathcliff Studios to get back a signed copy and a free Zealot Box, full of Inferno merchandise-. They're more than worth your soul, I promise."

"_Or_, come down to the show an get your contract signed in person," Crowley said. "Tickets are free, but you can only sell your soul once, so make it count. And don't forget to check the box that says who you're giving your soul to."

Crowley and Balthazar both gestured to themselves, as if to say, _Pick me_.

Balthazar turned to someone off camera. "Alright, Virgil, let's see the board."

The wall beside the entrance opened up to reveal a very Romanesque scoreboard. It showed that Balthazar had five-thousand, two-hundred and twelve and Crowley had three-thousand and ninety-eight.

"You've gotta be kidding me," Crowley said to the audience. "Still? I'm beginning to think you people don't even _want_ to go to Hell-."

Bobby paused the video. All the guys were pretty mad after that part of the show, but Sam looked crazed, like he was going to explode.

"When is this from?" Dean asked, scowling.

"A few days ago," Bobby said. "But the shows been on the air for about three years now."

"No," Sam said quietly.

"Friggin' Time-Crotch," Dean said. "I _knew_ something like this was happening."

"It's terrible," Castiel said. "By now, they might have taken half a million this way." He looked down despondently. "I can't believe Balthazar would do something like this."

"_Really_?" Dean asked, with pretty much all the attitude ever. "_You _don't know how he could make a deal with Crowley?"

"No way," Sam said, shaking his head. He was getting pretty worked up, staring at the paused screen.

"Take it easy," Bobby said.

"You know, I actually felt guilty," Sam said to no one in particular. "Everything here was going so great, and it seems like we just screwed our world up, you know? Like things would be better off without us? But this... The Sam and Dean in this dimension gave their lives to save the world, and... and _the bad guys get their own TV show?!_"

"Okay, I'm gonna need you to take a breath," Dean said gently, trying to put a hand on Sam's arm.

Sam pulled away and backed up. "No!" he said, and gestured to everything. "_All this is no!_" He pointed to Bobby and Castiel. "_You live in a world of __**no**__!_" He inhaled and bit his lip - eyes on the ceiling, hands on his hips - pacing anxiously.

"We're gonna kill 'em," Dean said. "That's what we're here to do, it's gonna be fine. Look at me."

Sam started shaking his head again, looking like he might start to rage-cry. "...,Friggin' **Gomez and Morticia**," was all he could say.

"You need to lie down?" Bobby asked.

"He's okay," Dean said dismissively, patting Sam on the back. "We're okay - just play the damn show."

By now, the boys had managed to completely alienate Bobby and Castiel. Bobby unpaused the video.

"Reset the board, Virgil," Balthazar said. "Now let's get to the main event. Two teams are still in play: Last season, Tom and Amanda Newie from Little Rock, Arkansas took the Devil's Path through the second circle and are now advancing to the next arena. Meanwhile, our Navy Seals - Raymond James and Josh Helmann - chose the Angel's Path and were cut down in the seventh circle by our guardians. Do we have a clip of that, Virgil?"

A highlight reel played of another arena, one with a giant roller-derby track. Two muscle-bound men in protective gear were running out the clock, trying to keep their footing as they roller-bladed around the circle, when two familiar women came on screen. They were the biker chicks who ran after the sniper in Heathcliff Studios - one was a petite woman with a slasher smile and a Wonderbra, the other was tall, tan and muscular, with pale blue eyes and a determined expression. They both wore plastic, articulated armor painted to look metal, open-faced medieval helmets, hemp "chain mail" and brown leather. Their costumes looked kinda badass. Even without the slow-mo replay of them clothes-lining a couple of giant Navy Seals in a hell-themed roller derby, they still would've looked pretty scary.

On seeing them, Dean and Sam seemed sick to their stomachs. Sam let out a little groan.

"Oh, _perfect_," Dean whined.

"Yep," Bobby said. "Dolly and Mog, defenders of the seventh circle."

"You know them?" Castiel asked.

"We've met," Sam said, folding his arms uncomfortably.

"At least twice that I remember," Bobby said. "Tough ladies. The boys couldn't win against either of 'em, let alone both of 'em."

"Those things aren't ladies, okay?" Dean said defensively. "They're juggernauts. Couple of bikini-waxed trolls, damn-near impossible to kill. _Anyone_ who goes up against them would get their asses handed to 'em-." Dean looked at Sam apologetically, patted his shoulder. "Sorry, man, poor choice of words."

Bobby looked at both of them, confused. "Am I missin' something?" he asked.

"I don't wanna talk about it," Sam said. He walked off and sat on the couch next to Frank the Rabbit.

"The goons have a thing for Sammy," Dean mumbled quietly. "They can... get a little gropey."

He turned a sympathetic eye back to Sam, who was now petting the rabbit with a somewhat sullen expression.

"How many times you run up against 'em?" Bobby asked.

"Four so far," Dean said. "Last time, they were slingin' cattle for this strung-out chupacabra down in ABQ. You can out-smart 'em, out-run 'em, or distract the hell out of 'em, but you can't kill 'em."

"A juggernaut can only be killed by other juggernauts," Castiel said. "It's potentially problematic."

"The **hell **you say," Dean said sarcastically. "Maybe we can buy 'em off. Give 'em Cas as a virgin sacrifice."

Castiel made the Squint of Death at Dean.

When the clip of the rolling butt-kicking stopped playing, they cut to Balthazar standing with both guardians near the audience. The women had their helmets off - the petite one had long, wavy blonde hair and too much make-up, the larger one had short, asymmetrical black hair and a lot of piercings.

"Ladies," Balthazar said, "you've defended your circle once again and claimed a team of worthy travelers. How do you feel?"

He held his microphone out for them both, but the blonde pulled it to herself. As she did, a graphic came up on the screen, identifying her as "Dolly."

"Well, y'know," Dolly said, whist loudly smacking some orange gum, "you just gotta go out there 'n' beat the piss outta e'rybody, 'n' hope fer the best. I try t'imagine the travelers is singin' Jingle Bells, 'cause that really gets my hate up." Her southern accent was deeper than humanly possible and suggested she was some sort of cartoon villain.

Balthazar held his mic out for the other woman. "And you, Mog?" he said. "How do you feel?"

An expletive must have flew out of her mouth, because the first thing Mog said was bleeped.

"****_heads_!" she yelled. "Aye, we was splifficated from mornin' on, an' I was sure t'have a chaw stowed in me bosoms, fer good spit."

Her graphic, when it came up, simply said "?" and her accent-.

You know what? No idea. No freaking idea. Sorry.

"The always exciting, Dolly and Mog!" Balthazar said. There was much love from the crowd.

Dolly took the microphone again, giving Balthazar a flirty smile. "_Haaay_," she said.

"Hey," Balthazar said back, chuckling and giving Dolly some come-hither eyebrows.

"So, whatcha'll doin' tonight?" Dolly asked.

Balthazar tried not to let his smile settle into a grimace. "I'm hosting the show," he said.

Big laugh from the audience.

"Pfft, _I know_," Dolly scoffed, playing it off. "I was just makin' TV talk wich'all."

Thankfully, they switched to whatever camera was on Crowley, who was watching the whole thing, his face emanating epic levels of royal contempt.

"I'm just calling an ad break," he said to some one off-screen. "Can we do that? Yes; no?"

Outside Her Syndrome began "Limelight" again, to play them off to a commercial.

Crowley turned to the camera, "Don't bust that nut just yet," he said cheerfully, "there's more uncircumcised fun on the way when the Newies enter the third circle. Will they choose the Devil's Path again? Find out, when Inferno returns..."

Before Bobby stopped the video, Sam saw Dean nodding along to the music, subtly sturgeon-facing in approval.

"_Nice_," he said. "You can say one thing about those two, they know a theme song when they hear it."

"That's all you have to say about what just happened?" Sam asked, annoyed.

"What, it's Rush," Dean growled. "They got taste, is all I'm sayin'."

"Nice to know where the line is with you, Dean," Sam said. "Now who's a whore?"

"I'm not the one you can buy for a box of crayons," Dean said.

Bobby sighed. "It's all comin' back to me," he said.


	19. Marcy!

BOBBY'S PLACE - MORNING

Bobby was going to play the rest of the clip when the doorbell rang. He got up, looked back at the others and twitched a bit.

"Nobody move," he said.

"Why?" Dean and Sam asked in unison.

"Just give me a minute," Bobby said. He went out the front door, only opening it wide enough for him to squeeze through.

Out on the porch, Bobby met with a sight for sore eyes: his neighbor, Marcy Ward, beaming up at him. She was all tarted up in a red velvet tunic and white fur coat, and holding a big red tupperware container. Her little orange car was parked behind her with the radio blaring "Caught Up In You". When Bobby saw Marcy, he grinned and pulled her in for a kiss.

A deep kiss... _Wow_, a steamy more-than-friends, spoon-bending kiss. When they finally broke apart, Marcy put the tupperware into his hands.

"I brought over the rest of my pumpkin cookies to tide you over while I'm at Dad's," she said. "I won't be gone more than a week or two, but go ahead and give those floozies of yours a ride."

"They won't all fit in the Chevelle," Bobby said.

"Poor baby," she said, chuckling.

"You know how ornery I get when you're gone," he said quietly.

"I'll bet," she said knowingly.

She smirked at him and went in for another kiss, but stopped short when she saw that Castiel had sneaked out onto the porch.

"Marcy!" Castiel said, grinning wide, about as excited as he ever gets.

"Cas, honey!" she squealed.

Delighted to see him, she left Bobby holding the tupperware and went straight to Castiel, took his face in her hands and gave it a squish, then she kissed his cheek and hugged him.

"I brought my pumpkin cookies," Marcy said.

"I **love** pumpkin cookies," Castiel said, in an oddly grave way.

"I know," she said, "that's why I make them."

Meanwhile, Bobby was rolling his eyes - what is he, chopped liver?

"Are you taking the niacin?" Castiel asked. "And St. John's Wort?"

She nodded, "Yeah, with my multi-vitamin, but I gotta get smaller caplets-." She hugged him again, but this time whispered in his ear, real serious, _"Does he have any girls in there_?"

Castiel frowned and whispered back, "_No, just boys_."

Marcy got a look on her face like she didn't know how to feel about that, but shook it off and gave Castiel a big smooch.

"You make sure he drinks water while I'm gone," she said, and added firmly, "Ice in a margarita doesn't count."

Castiel drew a breath and nodded: _my bad_.

She squished his face again and went back to Bobby for a kiss. Another deep, consuming kiss. Blindly, Marcy took the cookies from Bobby and handed them to Castiel, who hugged them possessively.

"Oh, crap!" Marcy said - or it sounded like she did, her lips were still smooshed into a kiss. She pulled away. "I gotta fix my make-up."

"Looks fine t'me," Bobby said with a slight shrug.

"Dad'll know," Marcy said. "Outside penny slots, it's his only superpower." She made a dash for the car.

"I thought he knew about us," Bobby said, annoyed.

"He knows we're dating," Marcy said, leaning on her open car door. "But I don't think he knows what 'dating' entails. I'll see you soon, baby. Take care, boys!" She waved at them energetically.

Bobby and Castiel waved back, watching her get in her car and drive away. When Marcy was gone, Bobby glared at Castiel. "When I tell you to stay put-."

"I think you should marry her," Castiel said, casually, as if that was something you just say.

"What is this, a conspiracy?" Bobby asked. "Get inside - and don't hide them cookies."

"You mean the ones she made_ for me_?" Castiel asked pointedly.

Bobby gave Castiel a scary look, causing him to flee into the house. Bobby followed after, but as soon as he was back inside, he saw Sam and Dean sit back down in their seats, both smirking.

"We're not talkin' about this," Bobby warned them.

"Who was that, Bobby?" Dean asked.

"She seemed nice," Sam said, batting his eyelashes and tossing his hair back.

"Mind yer business," Bobby said, starting to get all flustered.

"Is she your special lady friend?" Dean asked.

"That was Marcy," Castiel said, opening the tupperware.

"Shut up, Cas," Bobby said.

Dean let out a little growl, "_Rrrr, Marrsaay!_ Is she your little snuggle bunny?"

Sam and Dean both laughed their asses off.

"They're having sex," Castiel said, "I've seen them."

Everyone looked at him, completely mortified. What the hell, Cas?

Castiel's eyes went big. "...I have to go to work," he said anxiously.

Bobby had to take a big, cleansing breath through his nose. Castiel went and got his big, insane gray parka from the coat rack and went to the back door. He and Bobby exchanged tense looks for a moment, then Castiel left.

There was an awkward silence. Sam started cleaning up the kitchen again.

"Okay, I gotta ask," Dean said. "What the hell's with you and Cas?"

"What?" Bobby asked flatly.

"Are you living with him?" Dean asked, as if just the idea of it was crazy.

"He lives with Garth," Bobby said in a funny, noncommittal tone. "He's just stayin' here for now."

"That's kinda worse," Sam said. "It's weird, though, right?"

"He's not weird," Bobby said defensively. "Not half as weird as either of you, so watch it."

"So it's not as creepy as it looks?" Dean asked.

The expression on Bobby's face said he didn't want to say.

"He doesn't bother me," Bobby said. "He pulls his weight, takes care of the house, buys groceries. It's kinda like livin' with an angry little butler."

Sam laughed.

"How is that not weird?" Dean asked.

"You've been dead for three years," Bobby said, "you don't get to lecture me on weird."


	20. Playing Doctor

THE PENTHOUSE - NOON

Things in the penthouse were basically how we left them, the jukebox was playing - Ella Fitzgerald singing some old show tune - and Balthazar and Crowley were still on the piano bench, halfway through a bottle of whisky. Crowley was trying to relax, but still seemed perturbed. Balthazar had noticed.

"They were off duty," Balthazar said, kind of out of no where. He put his glass back on the piano.

"They?" Crowley asked.

"The twins," Balthazar said. He took Crowley's glass from him and put it with the other. "Still, I don't know if they could've helped with the security breech."

"I'm not angry," Crowley said, though unconvincingly. "I'd tell you if I was."

"No, you wouldn't."

"No, I wouldn't," Crowley admitted with a smirk.

"That's fine," Balthazar said bitterly. "You don't have to tell me anything."

There was something dark in his expression. His eyes began to glow an eerie blue and he put a hand on either side of Crowley's head, looking like he might crack it open. Crowley hardly reacted. He closed his eyes, seemed to nod off, but his lips were moving, like he was muttering something. When his eyes opened again, they were violet, and it was as if there was a light behind them. After about a minute, Balthazar let Crowley's head go, but had to catch him at his good shoulder to keep him from falling off the bench. Both of them were back to normal.

Crowley opened his eyes, startled. "What?" he asked, as if someone had said something.

"I asked if you were alright," Balthazar said. "I think you lost consciousness."

"I don't remember," Crowley said, looking surly, confused and a little panicked.

"Yes, well, you wouldn't remember that, would you?" Balthazar said blithely. "It's a catch 22. Maybe we should take a hiatus."

"We just came back from hiatus," Crowley said.

"Excuse me for not knowing what else to do," Balthazar said.

"I said I wasn't angry," Crowley said, still sounding angry.

Balthazar smiled. "I believe you," he said.

"And why are you suddenly pleasant?" Crowley asked, suspicious.

"I'm _always_ pleasant," Balthazar said. "You're sweet, you know that?"

What? Crowley looked at the whisky bottle - no, Balthazar hadn't finished it by himself.

"You're a strange little man," Crowley said.

"You have no idea," Balthazar said. He poured them both a drink.

Crowley looked back over his shoulder at Balthazar. For a minute, he didn't know what to say.

"Can I be honest with you?" Crowley asked, in a tone that made it sound like he was going to say something awful.

"_Of course_!" Balthazar said gleefully, as if he couldn't wait to hear something awful.

"I'm beginning to think you didn't hire me for my typing skills," Crowley said.

The door to the apartment burst open. Dolly and Mog were dragging a bloodied man in blue coveralls into the room. They were followed by a few other henchmen: Shipley, Lydecker, and a big guy we haven't seen before. He was kind of malevolent looking - really tall and broad, built like a bouncer, with a mean smile and the kind of haircut one might unfairly associate with mental hospitals. He was dressed like a cowboy without the hat, and carried a red tin tool caddy.

Crowley grinned when he saw everyone enter and absentmindedly flicked a hand back, hitting Balthazar in the nose.

"Fix your face," Crowley said, and hopped to his feet like someone who hadn't just had a bullet pulled out of his back.

He opened the coffin table up. There was a bowl of skittles inside; he gave Balthazar a look and tossed him the bowl, then stood back as Dolly and Mog practically carried the guy over and dumped him into the coffin.

It was Samandriel.

"Good work, girls," Crowley said. "There'll be a sheet of stickers in your lunch tomorrow, promise. Where's the Colt?"

Dolly and Mog looked at each other, clueless.

"The gun?" Crowley asked.

"Nay, there weren't no gun," Mog said.

"Just a dork in a onesie," Dolly said.

"**_He didn't shoot me with his finger!_**" Crowley roared. He was pretty steamed at first, but took a moment to collect himself. "Call the boys in band," he said nicely. "Tell them to get their snouts on this - the Colt has to be somewhere. And if you think anyone's nicked it, I want their thumbs in a box."

Dolly and Mog laughed evilly to themselves, but didn't move.

"What are you waiting for?" Crowley asked. "You'll get your treat when I get my gun."

"We wanna watch," Dolly said.

"Aye!" said Mog, in her inexplicably piratey way.

Crowley sighed. "Alright," he said, being gracious. "My suit's already ruined anyway. Butcher, bring me my instruments."

The big cowboy-looking dude, Butcher, came forward and set the tool caddy beside the coffin. Crowley knelt by Samandriel. He snapped his fingers and the jukebox started playing the Andrews Sisters' "Bei Mir Bistu Shein."

"You're a real dead-eye now, aren't you?" Crowley said to Samandriel, and flicked the name tag on his coveralls. "_Habib?_" He shook his head. "After all we've meant to each other over the years..." He took a power cord out of the caddy and whipped it at Shipley. "You, plug me in."

It took Shipley a second to get what Crowley meant. He grabbed the cord and, when he found an outlet, he plugged in whatever it was.

Shipley went back to the others and whispered to Lydecker, "So what happens now?"

They looked back as they heard a high-pitched buzzing. Crowley had turned on the implement he had Shipley plug in. It was a delicate little craniotomy drill.

Lydecker's body language suggested he didn't wanna see this. "Time to play doctor," he said. "You're not squeamish, are you?".

"Me?" Shipley asked smugly. "Are you kidding? I might be fresh off the line, but I doubt this guy's gonna-. Oh, sweet baby Jesus!" Shipley turned away quickly, shielding his eyes as the sound of a grown man screaming for his life filled the room.

The other henchmen gave Shipley a derisive look.

Lydecker pat him on the shoulder. "New guy," he told them all.

After a while, Crowley turned the drill off. Samandriel was hysterical, as you'd imagine - his chest was cut open, his rib cage slightly exposed and two holes were drilled into one of his ribs, like perforations. Crowley's hand was covered in blood. He held the drill up to Samandriel's face.

"Clever, isn't it?" Crowley said. "Angel tools. Easiest things in the world to make, as it turns out. But from what I hear, you know all about that."

When Crowley said that, Samandriel's eyes flicked to Balthazar.

"That's right," Crowley said. "Taz blabbed. Now I know about all that stuff they did with the things. _For shame_, Habib, I thought you lot were supposed to all be one big, happy family, but it turns out... that the only _real_ difference between Heaven and Hell, is the climate." He started sucking the blood off his fingers.

Samandriel panted, his voice breaking. "What do you want?" he asked.

"_Want_?" Crowley asked. "You've already put two bullets in me in less than a year. Right now, all I really _want_ is to take my misery and resentment, fashion it into a shiv, and **shove it up your ass**. Which I think would be good for both of us -_ I'd_ get to turn my pain and degradation into something constructive, and _you'd_ get to change your relationship status on facebook to, 'It's Complicated.' But right now, I what _need_, is to know where the other angels are hiding. I promise, it'll be quick for you all if you tell me. If not-."

He reached into Samandriel's wound and snapped the perforated rib out, causing him to scream in agony. The rib still had flesh on it. Dolly jumped up and down, waving, trying to get Crowley's attention. He turned his back on the henchmen and threw the rib over his shoulder like the bouquet at wedding. Dolly caught it, but Mog started fighting her for it. They struggled for a moment until Mog kneed Dolly in the stomach and she folded like a deckchair.


	21. Wuthering Heights

THE PENTHOUSE - NOON

Welcome back to The Torture of Samandriel, already in progress. Crowley was locking Samandriel into the coffin table's manacles - oh, hey, it has manacles... gross - and Balthazar watched the proceedings with a mixture of boredom and disgust. He snapped his fingers and the single on the jukebox changed to "Wuthering Heights" by Kate Bush.

"Have you been schtupping my jukebox?" Crowley asked with a sneer.

"I thought we were torturing," Balthazar said.

"Not _me_, you himbo!" Crowley barked. "Don't touch my torture playlist." He snapped again and the record switched back.

Balthazar got into his Skittles and started idly tapping keys on the piano as Crowley got a scalpel out.

"What rhymes with 'sex machine'?" Balthazar asked thoughtfully.

Crowley mulled it over a second and smiled. "Aging Queen?" he asked, then flinched as a handful of Skittles rained down on him. "Would you stop being playful for five minutes so I can cut the-."

"Arsenic and Old Lace is on tonight," Balthazar said.

That got Crowley's interest. "What time?" he asked.

"Six o'clock," Balthazar said.

"Are they playing it more than once?" Crowley asked.

"You only buy TV Guide when we're on the cover," Balthazar said. "Tisk."

"Well, this might take a while," Crowley said, then turned to Samandriel. "Unless... you wanna tell us right now?"

Samandriel glared at him, breathing heavily through flared nostrils: if he could have, he would've ripped Crowley's throat out.

Balthazar shook his head and put down the Skittles. "The trouble is, you're not used to torturing angels," he said grimly. "_I am_ - we have our spots. Let me work on him."

Butcher looked around, like he expected to find himself on Candid Camera. "You're... gonna torture the angel?" he asked, snickering. "Is that what you pi-."

Crowley cleared his throat loudly.

"Is that what you guys in Heaven do all day?" Butcher asked, with a somewhat facetious level of respect.

"Well, Breaking Bad wasn't on back then," Crowley said, "they had to make their own fun." He turned to Balthazar. "Are you serious?" he asked quietly.

"Send everyone out," Balthazar said seriously. "I don't want them to see this."

"You heard the man," Crowley said to his henchmen. "Chop-chop, stab-stab, I want every one of you weasels on the ground floor. Now!"

Everyone started heading out - Dolly was still recovering on the floor, so Shipley and Lydecker had to drag her out by her feet.

When all the henchmen were clear, Crowley turned to Balthazar and clapped his hands together enthusiastically. "Now, let's do some messed up-."

"You, too," Balthazar said, folding his arms resolutely. "Leave."

Crowley gawked. "Oh, don't even tease," he said. "There's no way I'm missing this. Come on, I've never seen an angel torture anyone. Not even on Cinemax."

"Exactly," Balthazar said. "I don't want you to see me do this. You'll lose all respect for me."

"_But I don't respect you now_," Crowley whined.

Balthazar started waving him out, like a fly from a kitchen. "Go on, now, shoo," he said.

Crowley started backing up. "This is such crap," he bitched. "I torture things in front of you all the time. Quid pro quo, Taz."

"Scoot."

Crowley tried to pull a sincere face. "If anything," he said softly, "I think it would bring us closer-."

Balthazar pointed at the door. "Out!"

Crowley let out a disappointed huff. What a pisser. He headed for the door, grumbling as he went, "All the other angels let their demons watch them torture..."

After a moderate amount of glaring and sulking, Crowley left the room. As soon as he had, Balthazar swept a hand through the air and the sliding glass wall slid shut, effectively locking off the room. He walked slowly over to Samandriel and knelt beside him, smiling.

"Hello, Smandy," Balthazar said.

"Brother," Samandriel said breathlessly, "get me out of here. Please, while there's still time."

"Is that what happens now?" Balthazar asked coldly.

"I came back for you," Samandriel, seeming genuinely confused. "We can leave here, _together_."

"You son of a bitch," Balthazar said under his breath.

"Does Crowley have you captive here?" Samandriel asked. "Some spell? ...Or is what they're saying about you really true? Have you really gone insane?"

Balthazar couldn't help an empty, somewhat sad laugh. "It's nice to know I've given you all something fun to chat about," he said, "but you don't say when this ends. **I'm **in control now."

"No, Balthazar," Samandriel said. "Enough is enough. You don't know what you're saying, you can't. To aid the King of Hell in his extermination of the angels? How could you work for-."

"**With**," Balthazar said listlessly.

"What?" Samandriel asked.

"With," Balthazar reiterated. "I work **with** him, we're a team... Like Holmes and Watson-. If they were playing themselves on telly and were secretly killing massive amounts of whatever Watson is."

"I knew you once," Samandriel said, angry, but almost weeping. "You were a loyal sentry. To even _listen_ to a demon, let alone the devil-. Can't you see how far you've fallen? How did this happen?"

Balthazar shrugged and smirked with some affection. "Well, I started to spank him, but it just sort of ended up like this."

"I never would've pegged you for a traitor," Samandriel said.

"Mm, that's what this whole thing's about to them, isn't it?" Balthazar said. "Which side of the line I'm on? Not that it matters, but I've done more good for humanity working with Crowley than I ever did thralled to Vampira."

"Naomi's dead," Samandriel said darkly.

"_You're welcome_," Balthazar said.

"Brother, you've been deceived," Samandriel said, a hint of a threat in his voice. "I know you're proud, that's always been your sin. But it's not too late to come home."

"And bring back all the weapons I took, is that it?" Balthazar asked indignantly. "I'm not proud, Samandriel, but I won't be a mindless weapon again."

That was it. Something in Samandriel snapped. "You selfish child," he said, giving Balthazar a withering look of contempt. "You don't care about your family at all anymore, do you? Your duty to our Father? We thought you were dead, Balthazar, we wept over you. And now you're hunting us, like some kind of monster. We're running from him, from both of you, hiding like animals while you're down here, laughing at us! Living... who knows what kind of life."

Ooh. That line. They both knew what it meant.

"And you're not even sorry," Samandriel went on through gritted teeth. "You think you're so much wiser now, so worldly. That you're making your own choices. You think you know his intentions, but he is The Beast. Believe me when I say, you have _no idea_ what he's truly after."

"Oh, Smandy," Balthazar said, laughing cruelly. "How did you live so long being _such a dumbass_?"

Balthazar's eyes began to glow again, and he put his hands on the sides of Samandriel's head. Samandriel's eye's glowed, too.

"What's happening?" Samandriel asked in a small voice. "Stop it... Please, stop."

"Oh, _relax_," Balthazar drawled, "I'm just reading your mind. You're going to tell me where the angels are."

Samandriel's lips began to move. Balthazar focused, taking his time, looking determined to do whatever he was doing. But then his expression changed. He was aghast.

"You can't be serious," Balthazar said. He let Samandriel go and they went back to normal. "Oh, you bloody hypocrite."

Balthazar's angel blade slid down his sleeve. With rage in his eyes, he plunged the sword into Samandriel, who lit up. Grace shone from his every angel-crevice before guttering out like a light from a burnt out candle.

Balthazar stood and straightened himself up. With a wave of his hand, he opened the glass wall and went out to the hallway.

Crowley was leaning against the wall beside the elevators. "Give up yet?" he asked. He noticed Balthazar's sword had blood on it. "You _didn't_..."

"The angels are in Adam-ondi-Ahman," Balthazar said.

"Adam-ondi-Ahman?" Crowley asked. "What the hell does that mean?"

"It's Cravensville," Balthazar said. "It's in Missouri."

Crowley stared at him for a moment, dumbstruck. "...**_Son of a bitch!_**"


	22. Agenda

BOBBY'S PLACE - NOON

After watching all any of them could stand of Inferno, Dean picked up the laptop and set it on the coffee table in front of Sam.

"So," Dean said. "That was the freakiest thing I've ever seen."

"Yeah," Sam sighed. "Don't know how it could suck more, which probably means we're about to find out it does."

"Yep." Dean gestured to the laptop.

Sam gave him a mad look and hugged the rabbit. "What?" he asked, ticked.

"You're the Geek," Dean said, "now _Squad_."

Sam made an angry little noise, put the rabbit down and picked up the laptop. "I don't even know what I'm looking for," he said.

"I dunno," Dean said. "Maybe they have something planned, like an agenda...?" He really didn't know, either.

Sam smirked. "Yeah, I'm sure they put that right-." He frowned at the screen.

"What?" Dean asked.

"Well,... there's a link on their website marked 'agenda,'" Sam said.

Sam and Dean looked at each other: it couldn't be that easy. Dean moved the rabbit aside so he could sit next to Sam on the couch, while Sam followed the link on the navigation that loaded a video player.

The video looked like it was a snippet from an interview. Crowley and Balthazar were in costume, sitting in folding chairs in front of a backdrop with the Inferno's fiery logo. An interviewer sat opposite them. She was young, blonde and bland - a poor man's Mary Hart.

"So," the interviewer began, "if you two are really who you say you are-."

"An angel and demon," Crowley said. "It's true."

"He's lying," Balthazar said joked.

"Why host a game show?" the interviewer asked.

"Well, obviously we have a sinister agenda," Balthazar said.

"Obviously," Crowley agreed. "A few years ago, I was looking to secure my position as King of Hell, and I was taking on partners. I needed an angel. They can go places and do things a demon can't."

"And I was the only angel-" Balthazar said.

"That we know of," Crowley corrected.

Balthazar continued, "- who'd ever tried his hand at the futures market, so to speak. It was a marriage of convenience."

"He was neutral," Crowley said. "That helped."

"Well, we both were," Balthazar said.

"I was already looking for something," Crowley said. "A long-lost something that would supply us with countless unclaimed souls. Though not of the most hygienic quality, I'll admit. It was a high-risk venture, but I'm a gambler by nature. It's part and parcel with dominant personalities."

"Oh, lord," Balthazar groaned. "**Anyway**, we'd been working on our little project for a few months, everything was just grim as pig's bollocks."

"You can't say that on camera," Crowley told him.

"And so we went down to my wine cellar and got smashed," Balthazar said.

"_He_ got smashed," Crowley said, pointing at Balthazar. "But we had a very long conversation about why earthly souls are so hard to come at. Angels have to answer prayers, crossroads demons have quotas. Even as King of Hell-."

"Are you king?" Balthazar asked facetiously. "You've never mentioned it."

"_Settle down_," Crowley said, trying to ignore that last remark. "I couldn't wait for the souls to come to me, I had to scout a prospective seller. And there's underlings, a pecking order. Like in Amway. It's all very limited and time consuming. Inside-the-box thinking."

"So I suggested we advertise, and the idea of starting 'Inferno' sort of evolved out of that," Balthazar said. "We bring them in with a good show, lay it all on the table and make sure everyone knows what they're getting into. Plus, when you're a celebrity, people just throw their souls at you. And _other_ things."

"It's a very exciting concept," Crowley said fondly. "I don't know why no one's ever thought of it before."

"And the end game?" the interviewer asked.

"World domination," Crowley said. "And we have a few charities that we like to keep a priority as well."

"It's more like a 'world peace' gig, though," Balthazar said casually. "We've been working toward a compromise with Heaven and Hell."

The interviewer was visibly taken aback by that.

"We offered a cease-fire," Crowley said. "They didn't take it. Now we're in a sort of cold war with both sides, and we're hoping to get them to stand down."

"Well, good luck with that," the interviewer said, trying to laugh.

"Thank you," Crowley said, his demeanor becoming suddenly flirtatious. "We could use your help, if you're interested. Every soul counts."

The interviewer smiled nervously, feeling trolled. "I... think I'll pass," she said. "Sorry, guys."

"We tried," Balthazar said with a laugh.

"And in the end, isn't that what matters?" Crowley asked.

He and Balthazar smiled at each other:_ we're bastards_.

"Exactly," the interviewer said, trying to get back into the spirit of things. "So, as natural enemies, would you say your partnership was rocky at the start? Was their friction between you two?"

"No, not at all," Balthazar said. "No friction, none. In fact, I'd say we had a sort of... lubricated chemistry."

Crowley shook his head all through Balthazar's answer. "There was a definite a rough patch at the beginning," he said. "Angels have a lot of prejudices-."

"Well earned," Balthazar said.

Crowley shrugged. "Fair enough, fair enough. _Hypocritical_."

"Sure," Balthazar said with a conceding little nod.

"But in spite of themselves," Crowley went on, "they're very easily subjugated. It wasn't all that hard to break-."

"**Watch it**," Balthazar warned.

"Bring... him around to my way of thinking," Crowley back-pedaled. "I'm the Angel Whisperer."

As Crowley spoke that last line, Balthazar rolled his eyes and made a subtle jerking motion with his fist.


End file.
